Authors: Elizabeth Buchan
‘How much?’ challenged Daisy, who had not read
King Lear.
‘Tell me.’
‘Let me see.’ Kit dropped a kiss onto one eyelid and kept it pinned shut with his lips. Then he pinioned the second.
Daisy got in first. ‘You could ask properly to marry me.’
Kit gave up on her eyelids and concentrated on exploring Daisy’s fascinating neck. ‘Not yet,’ he said, and half closed his eyes. ‘You must wait until I’m ready.’
The sun slid down into the sea, and in the misty violet evening Kit had kissed her over and over again until she felt the sweetness of abandonment.
He never did ask her properly.
There was a hammering at the bedroom door.
‘Hurry up, Daisy,’ Marcus said. ‘The parents are agitating. Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ she lied.
Daisy pulled up her skirt, extracted her handkerchief from her stocking top and stood up. ‘You’re not used to being thwarted, are you?’ she asked her reflection in the mirror. ‘You don’t like it.’
She pulled open the drawer and rummaged among the gloves and belts. At the back, concealed by a rose-coloured scarf, lay a photograph. Taken in France, it caught Kit standing at the water’s edge, shirt sleeves rolled as high as they could go, trousers held up by a fisherman’s leather belt. He had not known he was being photographed, and the print captured a young man’s dreaming face and sun-bleached hair. She sat on the dressing stool and said goodbye.
‘I hope you think all the suffering is worth it, you stubborn fool,’ she murmured and stroked the printed mouth. Her finger slid to the eyes, hovered, and then she took her hand away. For a few more seconds she concentrated on assembling fragments of memory. They would have to last a long time.
A minute later, she was sitting at her dressing table, redoing her face. Damp chestnut hair lay on her forehead and stuck to the sides of her cheeks and she rubbed it between her fingers. Her lipstick went on unevenly and she smoothed it impatiently over her lips. Framed by still matted lashes, her eyes looked out from under her hat with a new expression.
Tucking her handkerchief back into her stocking, Daisy pulled her suspenders into line, dropped her skirt, picked up her corsage of white rosebuds and maidenhair fern. A rose petal shed on the crêpe and she brushed it away.
Something had finished that could never be repeated.
NUMBER 5
UPPER BROOK STREET
17 January 1930
It was TERRIBLE WEATHER on the day
[wrote Susan Chudleigh to her cousin languishing in the Argyll wilderness],
one of London’s best pea-soupers. Matilda wanted to get married in St James’s, but I put my foot down for St Margaret’s. Would you believe it, the wretched girl nearly collapsed with nerves, but we brought it off in the end. Still, the Verral diamonds looked impressive and the champagne was the best Ambrose could procure. (I must say, Maud, I am hugely relieved she is off my hands.)
Daisy was ravishing in dark green, and very well behaved. Portlington’s son took a shine, I believe, and Tim Coats (very, very rich) is as keen as mustard. The bridegroom gave an excellent speech, and I wore mauve and white.
Whatever my feelings about Matilda, I have to tell you I managed a very smart wedding, despite Ambrose’s dire warnings about the need for economy, etc., etc., and the state of the stock market. During the reception a big crowd gathered outside No. 5 Stanhope Gate (where the reception was) but I gave orders not to turn them away. Why not let them enjoy the sight? Look out for the Tatler. They have gone to Devon for a few days. After that they are going East for several months while repairs are made to Hinton Dysart.
Yes, Ambrose is worried about the financial situation, thank you for asking. Why America let itself get into such a state, I don’t know. It was very irresponsible and now everyone is suffering...
Susan stared at the muffled, gritty light filtering through the window, a
moue
of discontent and ill-temper pursing her mouth. Then she rang for the parlourmaid, pointed to the fire and watched in silence while the girl built the coals into a pyramid.
The fire hissed, smoke eddied up the chimney in puffs and Susan opened her account book, which she consulted every Monday morning. The ‘outgoings’ column now recorded a considerable sum. It was extraordinary how little things – flowers, stockings, confetti, teas at the Ritz – managed to add up to so much. Against the ‘incoming’ column there now existed an ominous blank. Matty would no longer be paying her aunt a contribution for her upkeep.
Susan very much regretted its absence.
SRFTON HOTEL,
DAWLISH
9 January 1930
Dear Aunt Susan,
I am sorry not to have written sooner, but the journey here was exhausting and I have been in bed for the last two days recovering. But I wanted to thank you, first, for arranging the wedding. Second, for looking after me all these years. I also wanted to say I am sorry it was a duty for you rather than a pleasure.
There, she thought, I’ve said it.
The hotel is comfortable and well run by Mrs Peters. She is a rather lovely woman, with fair curls and an interesting aquiline profile. It is a great relief to be in a place which feels like a home and where we need not dress up. The view from our suite is enchanting, even at this time of year, and there are lots of birds. Kit goes out walking a lot and we meet for dinner...
The portable writing desk weighed heavily on Matty’s knees. She adjusted it and wriggled into a more comfortable position. It was tempting to write the truth, if only to unburden herself. Tempting but unwise.
The silences between Kit and her were sometimes so oppressive that several times Matty had been on the point of ordering her bags packed and returning to London. Then she became breathless and the world was reduced to concentration on releasing the band twisting around her chest. It was not that Kit was inattentive, far from it, but it was the attention and politeness of a stranger. Which he was, of course. Matty wondered what happened to famous people after they had brought off spectacular coups. Did a new prime minister wake up the morning after the election with a dragging feeling of ‘What now?’ as she did? Did Rembrandt apply the last brushstroke to Saskia and feel there was nothing more to do after the magnificence of his creation?
Matty picked up her pen. ‘The fish is excellent,’ she wrote and then inspected her nib. Nothing wrong with that piece of information. The trouble was there was nothing more she wished to say to her aunt.
Fish.
‘Your aunt is a piranha,’ Kit had informed her over sole coated in prawn sauce.
‘What’s that?’
‘A flesh-eating fish.’
At that they had looked at each other across the table and laughed – for the first time – over the shared joke, which got them over the raw patch after Matty had inadvertently mentioned Daisy and Kit had gone silent.
Fish, Matty thought, and picked up her pen.
A CLIFF TOP
11 January 1930
Darling, beloved Daisy,
I am writing this overlooking the sea in the only patch out of the wind that I can find. Forgive the scrawl. The sea is furious, the sky leaden and the rain of the most penetrating kind, but I want you to know that you looked more beautiful than I have ever seen you at the wedding, and it nearly killed me. I have never loved you so much. I will never feel for anyone like this again.
This is the last time I will ever tell you that, and the last time I can or will write to you.
Kit.
Shivering and coughing, Kit eased himself to his feet. Rain was sweeping in from the sea and hit him squarely in the face. Then came the punch of the wind. He stuffed the letter into his mackintosh pocket, turned up his collar and began to pick his way along the sodden turf and patches of scree. The gulls screamed over the wind and, despite his collar, the rain seeped down his back. Again Kit coughed, felt the spider’s legs of fever run down his arms and legs, up into his head, and surrendered to them.
NUMBER 5
UPPER BROOK STREET
14 February 1930
Dear Kit,
Thank you for your letter.
Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything more.
Daisy.
The envelope was addressed to c/o Max Longborough, The Old Cataract Hotel, Assuan, in savage black letters. Daisy laid it on the salver in the hall, ready for the evening post, and picked up the corsage that had just been delivered. ‘With the compliments of Mr Turner’, read the legend on the card, and underneath, scrawled in black ink, ‘Dearest Girl, Do make a chap happy and come to dinner.’
A second, more elaborate, arrangement of orchids lay beside it. That card read: ‘Portlington’. Neither of the cards interested Daisy, but the corsages were exquisite and she studied them. Both would add a certain something to her well-aired evening gown, which required an extra touch here or there – else it and she would die of boredom. Perhaps Portlington’s orchids at her waist? On the other hand, Turner’s gardenia would lie just so on her shoulder and its scent was delicious. Daisy was
not
going to allow herself to think it did not matter one twopenny farthing what she wore to where.
She picked up the gardenia, smelt it, and her newly grown hair fell in a bright screen over her face. Breathing in the scent, she concentrated on assembling her scrambled will-power. Corsages and suchlike had to matter. She would make them matter. They were the pegs on which her future hung. Hats, dresses, fork teas,
thés dansants
... After all, if you considered something important, then so it was, and never mind that the wounds from her love affair were seeping blood.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Daisy picked up Portlington’s orchids. ‘All right, old girl?’ called Marcus, from the safety of a whisky glass in the drawing room. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said.
‘It does no good to brood moodily over a mirror, you know. It induces instant panic and a highly expensive dash to Elizabeth Arden.’
Daisy laughed. ‘Marcus, you are a fool.’
THE OLD CATARACT HOTEL,
ASSUAN
21 April 1930
Dear Flora,
Here we are back in Assuan after an exhausting trip. In fact, it was a bit too much so Kit left me behind in base camp while Max and he rode on into the desert, playing at being Bedouins or something. (Please don’t tell him I said that.) I was hoping to write to you with a piece of good news but it has come to nothing. Perhaps next time I write...
But I am enjoying myself very much, far more than I imagined I would, and I remember so much more than I thought from my childhood. Anyway, we are going to spend a few days here, sightseeing, and then take a boat down the Nile and begin the leisurely journey back home via Damascus (because I want to see my old house) then on to the great theatre in Ephesus and motor up through Italy. We should miss the hottest weather.
Kit is well, very sunburnt, and excited. He and Max talk for hours and I’m often asleep by the time he comes to bed.
Assuan itself is fascinating. It was once one of the most important towns in Egypt because it lay on Nubia’s northern border and, apparently, there was once a brisk trade in gold, ivory, slaves and spices. I’ve been busy buying jewellery and one or two good paintings which I am looking forward to showing you. With all good wishes,
Matty.
PS I do hope the builders are getting on as fast as possible and it is not too dreadful. Kit wishes to know if they have started on the roof and if they received his instructions?
HINTON DYSART
30 June 1930
Dearest Brother,
In plain words, this is torture. There is dust in monster heaps and no roof over the attics. Father is foaming at the mouth at the inconvenience and has retired to his room and won’t come out. Robbie is in the vilest of tempers with me, but is resolutely jolly with Father which he hates. I’m terrified by the pair of them and the staff are threatening to rebel. Meanwhile, I picture you and Matty tucked up in first class enjoying wonderful expeditions and I think it really is too bad. However, this is the fate of the Single Woman. Miss Glossop did warn me of its perils. Therefore, on Polly’s suggestion, I am sending Robbie to her on holiday (question: can looking after our screaming nephew be a holiday?), and I am dragging Father off to Ardtornish. By this stage of the letter, I hope you are feeling guilty.
I can’t bear to see the house like this and it is certainly not fit for pigs and Mrs Dawes practically fainted into Ellen’s arms yesterday because she saw two rats! The Chief Builder with whom I have developed a Deep Friendship promises me that it will all be over by Christmas. Where have I heard that phrase before?
Exasperatedly,
Flora
PS The new doctor is really rather nice. It’s funny – although he comes from quite a poor family and his parents used to live up by Clare Park, you wouldn’t know that when you meet him as he is terrifically well presented and forward looking.
PPS I feel as though my whole world is being pulled apart and nobody cares.
Before the builders wrought more devastation, Flora and Mrs Dawes had agreed to clear out the old nursery rooms at the top of the house. Flora stood in the doorway of the schoolroom, where shadowy hands reached out and plucked her back into the small, often secret, world of childhood. The nursery floor had been the sisters’ domain, in which Kit, set apart by the superiority of boarding school, did not figure, and those silent, sometimes tedious, hours spent up there were imprinted like an X-ray onto Flora.
Nine a.m., lessons. Eleven a.m., milk and biscuits. Twelve o’clock sharp, a brisk walk. Luncheon at one o’clock, followed by half an hour lying flat on the floor, for the sake of their posture, while Miss Hunter/Glossop/whoever read to them, from which vantage point Polly and Flora played Spot-the-Pink-Knickers, and the furniture seemed huge and strangely angled. Three o’clock, lessons again. Five o’clock, tea. Bread and butter on a flowered china plate and
plain
cake.
Miss Glossop, Flora recollected, had not cared for the Hanoverians: history had been weighted in favour of the Plantagenets (‘so chivalrous’), the Tudors (‘so clever and so right for England’), and the Stuarts (‘so romantic and doomed’), and boiled down to a chronicle featuring a surfeit of lampreys, butts of Malmsey and little gentlemen in black velvet. In English lessons Miss Hunter concentrated on parsing, which sounded like a disease, but conferred the ability to single out an adjective from a noun. Geography was confined to twirling a globe.