A Tale of Two Families (17 page)

Fran went to the television, which was on without sound, and twiddled for a programme they could enjoy. She found one about a young couple who were converting a flat. Baggy thought they were paying too much rent, Fran thought it was going to be uncomfortable. No flat ever seemed as comfortable as her own. She remembered that she’d promised herself a speedy return to it but now… She couldn’t leave until she felt more at ease about George and June.

She would have been relieved could she have seen how normal and relaxed they – and Robert, too – appeared to be, watching television in the tiny cottage sitting room. They had enjoyed their cliff-hanger serial, in spite of the fact that their combined brains had failed to unravel the intricacies of its plot, and were placidly watching the programme Fran and Baggy were watching. But soon Robert remembered he had some notes to make and went up to his study. George took his place on the sofa, beside June, and after a moment put his arm around her.

June wondered if she ought to tell him not to, but didn’t. She was quite sure she ought not to put her head on his shoulder, but did.

George said, ‘Darling June.’

June said, ‘Darling George.’

George said, ‘Was it as much of a surprise to you as it was to me?’

‘You mean, what Aunt Mildred said?’

‘I mean, what you felt.’

‘Oh, that wasn’t a surprise,’ said June. ‘You see, I’ve always felt it.’

‘Good God! Surely not always?’

‘Absolutely always,’ said June cheerfully. ‘From the very first evening I met you. But of course it doesn’t mean anything. I love Robert just as you love May. It was just… well, you’re like Rudolph Valentino.’

‘I’m
what
? I saw him in an old movie and he was ghastly. June, you don’t really mean…’

‘Oh, I don’t mean you’re like him that way. I think he was ghastly too. It’s just that, for me, you’re like he was for Mother. Exciting to think about but not in the least important.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said George.

‘What?’ said June, through a blare of television sound. George got up and turned the sound down.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said June. ‘I shouldn’t like Robert to come back and find us sitting here in dark silence.’

‘Robert would never dream of thinking… And if we keep the sound up, we shall have to shout.’

‘Well, you can turn the sound off if you turn the lights on. Then it’ll seem quite natural that we’re sitting here talking.’

‘I don’t
want
the lights on,’ said George, who found the room, lit only by television, exactly right for his mood. He went to the door, opened it, listened, then closed it again. ‘Now stop fussing. Robert’s typing away like a beaver. He won’t be down for ages. Just a second, while I draw the curtains.’

‘But we never draw them. What will Hugh think, when he comes back, if he finds them drawn?’

George, drawing them, said, ‘He’ll think far worse if he finds them undrawn and happens to look in.’

‘But why?’

‘Because this discussion has reached a stage where I have to kiss you.’

With great strength of mind June sprang up from the sofa and moved to a small chair which had hard, discouraging arms. For a few seconds she felt it was sinking under her or was she sinking through it? Then she and it came to terms with each other, also the room steadied itself. And she was able to speak firmly, though the firmness was more in the intention than in her voice.

She said, ‘George, if you have any real affection for me, any true liking – and surely you must have, after all these years – I implore you to sit still and
think
. Please, George. Just for a few minutes.’

George gave her a loving smile and said, ‘All right. I’ll do just that.’ It was, he decided, a very good idea indeed.

At the dinner table he had been in no doubt about the nature of the great light he had seen (he would have approved of Fran’s phrase) as the result of Mildred’s unpardonable remark. (Actually he had not only pardoned her but was even feeling grateful to her.) He hadn’t instantly known he ought to have married June; he hadn’t fallen in love with her or even felt violently attracted to her. He had simply known, without any shadow of doubt, why he had been so happy since the move to the country, why everything had felt ‘right’. Of course! It was the presence of June. Dear June,
not
short and plump as Mildred had most libellously described her, but certainly round… and above all,
right
.

That had been enough for him at dinner. He hadn’t looked ahead to possible delights or difficulties or both. He had simply
felt ‘So that’s that. Dear, darling June. And, oh you poor love, how you’re blushing. Never mind. May’s out of the room, Robert has his back to you. And there’s nothing, nothing to worry about.’ Well, if he’d really felt that, he must have automatically decided that this particular case of ‘rightness’ couldn’t be allowed to develop in the way most similar cases had. Of course not. Even if June were willing, he couldn’t allow himself to come between her and Robert or between her and May. Nor, in this particular case, could he allow himself so to hurt May.

Yes, indeed. Even though not consciously worked out, those must have been his underlying thoughts. But now, sitting in the small, dimly lit room, staring unseeingly at the silent television screen, he realised that just a few minutes alone with June had altered the situation. This was largely because he now intuitively knew what she felt about him. He was good at knowing what women felt about him; indeed, the main reason of his success with them was that he seldom showed an interest until he knew he had aroused one. (Perhaps it was only then that he felt the interest. He was no hunter; what attracted him most was mutuality of attraction.) And he knew now that, though darling June would verbally say ‘No, no, no’ she would physically say ‘Yes, yes, yes’ sooner or later.

He sneaked a look at her. She was sitting with her eyes closed in a certain way… really, one could only describe it as swooning. Those eyelids were already saying ‘Yes, yes, yes’.

On which he suddenly felt, of all the unlikely things, fatherly. Poor love, this kind of thing was outside her experience. She must be protected. And he could do it. Quite a few times he had denied himself delightful women, and for less potent reasons than applied to June. Business reasons, even… husbands who were extra suspicious… wives who were not discreet… women he suspected of
being clingers. Now he came to think of it, he had switched off his interest in Sarah, though it was that interest which had clinched his decision to take the Dower House, on a soaking wet day. Of course he could protect June. He was in control.

He said, ‘Wake up, love.’

‘I wasn’t exactly asleep.’

‘I’ve never seen you asleep.’ Unwise remark, that; one would have to watch one’s step all the time. ‘Well, I’ve done what you asked. I’ve thought. And I promise you there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘How do you mean that?’ said June warily.

‘I mean it in the way you want me to. We’re not going to risk hurting Robert and May.’

‘It wouldn’t be a risk, it would be a certainty.’

‘Well, one
could
keep things secret.’ Another unwise remark. ‘But we’re not going to try – that is, we’re not going to have any
guilty
secret. What we feel for each other will be a perfectly innocent secret. And we’re not going to be miserable about it. Promise me that.’

‘I do promise. I can, now you’re being so wonderful. Actually, I feel insanely happy. I can’t remember ever before feeling quite like this.’

This time
her
remark was unwise, George reflected – while saying with equal unwiseness, ‘Me, neither.’ He then added firmly, ‘It’s going to be
fun
, darling June. Never anything serious, never anything hurtful, to anyone. God help me, I’ll resign myself to being just your Rudolph Valentino.’

‘Is there anyone I could be for you? Greta Garbo or someone?’

‘I prefer my women in the flesh,’ said George, thinking what very nice flesh June’s was. The flesh of women who were almost, but not quite, plump was the nicest flesh in the world.

The front door was heard to open, followed by the tinkle of Penny’s chain collar. June hastily turned the television sound up; then opened the door to the hall. Penny, at her most wrigglesome, dived into the sitting room.

‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ said Hugh, then glanced at the screen. ‘Oh, I’d like to see this.’ He sat down and picked up the squirming Penny.

George said he must go, and went into the hall, followed by June. Out in the little porch he said, ‘Goodnight, darling. See you tomorrow.’

‘Not tomorrow – nor Sunday. You’ve got weekend guests.’

‘Good God, I’d forgotten.’ May had reminded him when she telephoned that afternoon – it had been an extra reason for being thankful that Mildred was leaving – but a lot had happened since then.

‘May will have more than enough on her hands without us. And Robert and I wouldn’t mix well with your business friends.’

‘Can’t say I feel like mixing with them myself.’ But, really, he was quite glad they were coming. It would give him the chance to do some further sensible thinking.

He stooped to give her the usual goodnight kiss, but she drew back, shaking her head. He whispered, ‘Nonsense, darling. We’ve got to get used to behaving in our usual way. Don’t
worry
. Just leave everything to me.’

Anyone was welcome to see the kiss he gave her, his normal, brother-in-law’s kiss. Unfortunately, he got no cooperation from her – no cooperation, that is, in keeping it normal. And it lasted longer than he had intended. Not much too long; he was pleased with himself about that, also pleased that it had ended just before Robert came down the stairs. They exchanged brotherly goodnights.

Dear, darling June! No wonder she’d tried to avoid a kiss. But all would be well, George told himself, striding back to the Dower House. He was definitely in control.

Hugh, after a disturbed night during which Penny successfully established a claim to over half his narrow bed, was awakened by his mother saying, ‘Sorry, darling, but Aunt Mildred particularly wants to say goodbye to you – in fact, she’s here now.’

His great-aunt, suitably dressed for travelling in pale blue gingham, was already in the room. She said, ‘Would you excuse us, dear June? This is a little
private
farewell.’

Hope she’s not going to rape him, thought June, on her way downstairs.

Mildred, having closed the door, turned towards the bed. ‘Dearest boy, I just wanted to assure you that I haven’t breathed a word. Your secret’s safe.’

‘There
is
no secret,’ said Hugh desperately.

‘I know, I know, dear dark horse – that’s my new name for you instead of Little St Hugh. How
is
dear Sarah?’

‘She’s fine but… No, Aunt Mildred! Please don’t kiss me. I haven’t shaved.’

‘Nor had you at our last secret meeting. I find it most virile. Well, goodbye, my dear boy.’

She was now sitting on the bed, with her hands on his shoulders. Luckily for him Penny possessively interposed, pushing her nose into Mildred’s face.

Mildred backed. ‘Oh, dear! But perhaps she only meant to kiss me.’

‘They’re blowing the car horn for you,’ said Hugh, inventively. ‘You’ll miss your train.’

Again she leaned forward, then saw that Penny was baring her teeth in a way which certainly wasn’t a smile. ‘Well,
I must just
blow
you a kiss.’ She did so, then swung her white wicker handbag in a last farewell gesture and sped out of the room.

‘God Almighty,’ breathed Hugh sinking back on his pillow, which Penny took to be an invitation to wash his face.

He had barely recovered from both Aunt Mildred and Penny before he began to feel worried. Ludicrous as his great-aunt’s suspicions were, was it conceivable that Corinna, too, might entertain them? Could that be what was wrong with her? It now occurred to him that her seeming disinterest in his night at the Hall could have been jealousy. Oh, no! He was just letting Mildew’s nonsense put ideas into his head.

All would be well if he could have a real talk with Corinna. She must come for a walk with him. He sprang up. Penny firmly accompanied him to the bathroom.

He dressed and breakfasted hastily, then set out. June called after him, ‘Don’t forget we’re leaving the Dower House to itself this weekend.’

‘I know. I just want one word with Corinna.’

He found her in the William Morris dining room, struggling to arrange some beech leaves in a large stone jar.

‘Mother wants us to have meals in here and I’m supposed to make it look lived-in. It’ll certainly never look eaten-in; it hasn’t had so much as a sniff of food since we came. Oh, hell!’ The beech leaves had fallen over. ‘What
is
it, Hugh?’

‘I thought we might plan a walk.’

‘Sorry. I’ve got to help Mother. And if I do get any free time I want to work on a new part.’

‘What part?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Oh, I can’t tell you about it now. Do clear out. I must get this room finished.’

He didn’t feel convinced there was any part. Something was wrong with her and he really couldn’t believe it had to do with Sarah. He was about to ask her point-blank when Fran came in, back from seeing Mildred off.

‘Your mother’s mad to think of using this room,’ she said to Corinna. ‘It’ll take all the flavour out of the food. Besides, the decor calls for two parlour maids, if not for a butler.’

May, appearing in the doorway, said, ‘Mrs Matson now says she can’t carry all the food all the way from the kitchen. So we shall have to stick to the Long Room. It’s awful the way we waste these front rooms. Oh, hello, Hugh.’

She didn’t, Hugh thought, look any too pleased to see him. This weekend certainly wasn’t going to be any fun. He made one last effort with Corinna. ‘Perhaps you’ll have some time tomorrow.’

‘If I do, I’ll come and get you.’ She gave him a quick, curiously tentative smile.

He smiled back but he still felt both worried and aggrieved as he turned to go. His aunt, with her customary kindness, called after him, ‘We shall miss you all. Well, back to normal next weekend.’

He called back, ‘Lovely!’ and hoped she was right.

Fran asked what time the guests were expected.

‘Around midday,’ said May. ‘I must say I’d have liked a few days to recover from Mildred but George asked them before he knew she was coming.’

‘I’m surprised he hasn’t asked any business friends here before.’

So was May – and relieved. The wives of business friends were always potential dangers. She was glad to be able to say now, ‘He doubts if he’ll be asking any more. He says we’ve all the company we want with Robert and June so near. I must get back to the kitchen.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘Only to be on hand in case the Harleys arrive early. And make sure George is around. I hope he’s recovered from driving Aunt Mildred to the station.’

‘He seemed particularly cheerful. Relief, no doubt.’

The Harleys, Graham and Sally, arrived punctually, a handsome couple in a handsome car. Graham, a new client of George’s, was in his fifties, pleasant, extrovert and only a trifle too heavy. Sally, still in her early thirties, was so attractive that Fran watched George’s reactions to her with both suspicion and hope. Should he be attracted it would be hard on May but not as hard as what
might
lie ahead of her – though Fran was now censoring her suspicions about June, assuring herself there was ‘nothing in it’.

George, on this first meeting with Sally Harley, at once began using her as a touchstone for his feelings about June. He found Sally delightful, so pretty, so admirably dressed, so – to say the least of it – friendly. And so much younger than her husband; normally it would positively have been one’s duty to meet her fully halfway. Now, the most that he felt was a faint wistful ‘what might have been’ – and every minute that he was free to live his own thoughts he wondered if there could be any chance of catching even a glimpse of June over the weekend. He had begun wondering that as soon as he woke up. He was no longer glad of two days in which to think sensibly. He just wanted to be with June – but not, in any way, harmfully. And he still felt in control.

Meanwhile, the weekend lay ahead and one had to be a decent host, also to do a little something for Sally Harley. He summoned up a fair line of banter (definitely higher grade than the playfulness he’d turned on for Mildred) but it was a strain; and he was thankful when, after lunch, the Harleys said they would like to be shown the neighbourhood. Banter could hardly be expected when he was driving the car.

Fran, too, was thankful. She had pulled her weight in the conversation at lunch – considerably better than Baggy and Corinna had – and would be glad to go off duty. Perhaps an afternoon nap? But when, after seeing the car off, she was on her way to the stairs, she ran into Baggy, returning to his room.

‘Come in and talk a bit,’ he suggested, then added quickly, ‘unless you’ve something to do.’

‘Not a thing in the world.’ She waved farewell to her afternoon nap without too much regret. She had grown fond of Baggy and had seen less than she wished of him during Mildred’s visit.

As usual she found his room cheerless. The brightest note was the felt frog, displayed on the divan. She patted it on her way to sit down and said, ‘Lucky Fred. He doesn’t have to face weekend guests. Oh, Baggy, I’m getting old. Nowadays I only seem to like family or really old friends.’

‘Same here. And most of my old friends are dead.’

‘So are many of mine. But I’ve replenished the stock a bit.’ She then added, ‘Doubt if I shall any more, though,’ so as not to sound more fortunate than he was, but found herself thinking it might well be true.

‘I dare say you’re looking forward to getting back to your flat.’ To his delight, the letter he had drafted for her had secured a slight reduction in her rent, since when he had taken an almost proprietary interest in the flat. ‘It must be a nice little place.’

‘Well, it’s right for me. You know, Baggy, as I grow older I get more selfish and the best way of coping with that is to live a life where my selfishness doesn’t hurt anyone.’

Baggy smiled. ‘You’re not selfish, Fran.’

‘Oh, I am. And I’d be quite abominably selfish if I didn’t pamper myself when I’m on my own. Then I can save up a bit of unselfishness to offer other people.’

‘But how does the flat help?’

‘Well, I don’t have to consider anyone but myself there. I can get up when I like, go to bed when I like – quite often I have supper in bed and lie there listening to the radio or watching television.’

‘Or reading all those Agatha Christies you told me about,’ said Baggy, with amused reminiscence.

‘I shall send you some as soon as I get back, and we’ll write to each other about them.’ Perhaps it would come near to approximating what he always hankered for: the shared pleasure.

‘I shall like that. Tell me, Fran, is Mildred deliberately malicious?’

Fran looked at him quickly. Did the suddenness of his question indicate that he
had
taken in the effects of Mildred’s remarks last night? But her eyes got no response from his – for though he had indeed hinted, he was not prepared to do more unless she met him halfway, so great was his fear of alarming her if she wasn’t already alarmed.

As cautious as he was, she merely answered, ‘No, Baggy. When she does any harm she doesn’t know what she’s up to. You see, she’s never quite grown up.’

‘Was she as bad when she was a child?’

‘She didn’t
seem
so bad. She was so pretty and tiny and delicate – then; she’s strong as a horse now. Of course she was spoilt, but lots of spoilt children turn out all right.’

‘I suppose she ought to have married,’ said Baggy.

‘Well, I did my best about that when we were girls. I had her to stay with me in Bloomsbury – where, I’m afraid, I was living a pretty variegated life – and introduced all the men I knew. She quite cut me out, with her prettiness, but then I think they found her too fancy.’

Baggy nodded his head sapiently. ‘Men don’t like affectation.’

‘Actually there was one man… not that he intended matrimony but he did at least make a pass at her, one night when I’d left her alone in my flat. Oh, poor Mildred.’

‘Did he frighten her?’

‘No, she frightened him. He told me afterwards that she started to dance and pretended she was a nymph. He ended by rushing out into the night. I still feel guilty about letting her in for that. Do you think it did her any harm?’

‘Depends if he rushed out before or afterwards,’ said Baggy, feeling something of a dog.

‘Oh, before, definitely. What I meant was… well, I wouldn’t have liked to be rushed out on. Oh, dear.’ Fran shook her head, laughing, then stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry. It’s that enormous lunch.’

‘You’d better take a nap. I could do with one, too.’

After she’d gone he displaced Fred the Frog and lay down on his bed. Normally, he would have merely dozed in his chair but today he found it pleasant to think he was lying down when Fran was lying down; it gave him a sense of companionship. Funny to think of her as a girl, living a ‘variegated’ life. He didn’t feel shocked about that. Must have been around the time he first met Mabel at the tennis club. Mabel would have been shocked – and so would he, then. One lived and learned.

He slept until the car returned and the unspectacular weekend continued its course. It never had any claim to fame in its own right but eventually almost every member of the Dower House family saw it as the ending of an epoch. And George came to feel that, if it hadn’t happened, things might have turned out differently. He was none too sure about that but, anyway, he looked back on it as two wasted days.

By the time the Harleys left, after supper on Sunday, he had only one idea in his head: he must see June instantly. He had no
plans as to what was to happen when he saw her. He just had to be with her – all the more so because it had now dawned on him that he would be away from the Dower House on Monday and Tuesday nights as he had to visit a client in the north of England. The thought of not seeing her until Wednesday evening was unbearable. He must see her
now
. He didn’t even spend time in telling anyone he was going to the cottage. He simply went.

He found her, with Robert and Hugh, watching the news on television and only when it finished did Robert turn the sound down, before enquiring how the weekend had gone. George described it briefly, concluding by saying that the Harleys had given Corinna a lift back to London.

Hugh, with assumed nonchalance, said, ‘Ah yes. I expect she has an early class tomorrow,’ then got up and went out of the room.

‘Working tonight, Robert?’ said George hopefully.

‘No, there’s something I want to watch. Do you mind if I turn the sound up now?’

‘No, no, go ahead,’ said George. ‘But I need some fresh air.’ He turned to June. ‘Let’s see if your friend the nightingale’s singing.’

‘No, thanks, George. I want to see this thing that’s starting.’ She glanced at the window. ‘Besides, it’s begun to rain.’

Even the elements were against him. He said, ‘I shan’t be back at the Dower House until Wednesday evening.’ Robert had now turned the sound up.

‘What, George?’ said June.

He repeated the information loudly, explaining why he would be away. June said, ‘I see,’ and Robert said, ‘Right,’ then they both concentrated on the screen.

George gave it up. ‘I’ll be off.’

He looked back after he opened the door and saw that June had turned her head and was smiling at him. It seemed to him
a most melting, loving smile. Well, that was something to take away with him.

Driving to the station with Hugh next morning, he said, ‘Your mother all right today? Last night I thought she looked tired.’ He had thought no such thing but needed some reason to mention June, for the pleasure of it.

‘Really. I didn’t notice. She was blithe as a bird this morning.’

‘Oh, good. Blithe, was she? Living in the country suits her, doesn’t it? I’ve noticed she sometimes looks quite beautiful.’