Dubious Legacy (12 page)

‘James Martineau’s girl. He was very much in love, still is, no doubt.’ Margaret eyed Barbara. ‘They had a room down the corridor, made a lot of noise at night, lots of “oh”s and “oops”. Quite uninhibited. One wondered how the bed stood up to it.’ Margaret laughed, exposing her teeth and tongue. ‘Hang the dress in the cupboard,’ she said to Antonia. ‘Leave it with me. Valerie would look good in that colour.’

Seeing her friend’s stricken expression Antonia, reaching for the dress, said, ‘All right, you think about it. It’s a good colour for the older woman, kind to the skin.’ She shook the dress then, changing the subject, she said, ‘We’ve not only arranged the flowers but created an Edwardian decor. I had this great-aunt,’ she said, moving towards the hanging cupboard. ‘She used to tell me how women behaved in her young day—you would probably know this—they had lovers and when they were asked to house parties they made discreet love under their husband’s noses, and lots more than that, it seems. Oh, I
say,’
she said, opening the cupboard door, ‘you have even had your
cupboards
lined with mirrors. Golly! I see me, me, me lurking in there.’ She hung the dress on a rail. ‘Don’t you weary of seeing you, you, you?’ she asked.
‘All
the time?’

Margaret said, ‘No, I don’t,’ and ran her tongue over her teeth, exploring her gums.

Antonia said, ‘You look like an ape doing that, a golden orang-utan.’ She sensed that her friend had not yet recovered from Margaret’s disclosure of Valerie, whoever Valerie might be. ‘And your cupboard,’ she exclaimed, ‘is full to bursting with clothes! What a liar you are, telling us you never have anything new except nighties. You must take us for a pair of simpletons.’

‘I do,’ said Margaret, lolling back on her pillows. ‘D’you mind pulling the blind down before you go? The sun gets in my eyes.’

‘Oh, pull it yourself,’ said Barbara, recovering from her shock. ‘Come on, Antonia, I hear voices. James and Matthew must be back.’ She jumped up from the sofa and, slipping her arm through her friend’s, drew her towards the door. ‘We shall see you at the party,’ she said, opening the door, ‘tonight.’

‘Shan’t be there,’ said Margaret.

Antonia said, ‘Ho!’ as they went through the door. In the passage she said, ‘That woman is a phenomenal liar. Gosh! So Henry now goes in for sodomy as well as horses,’ and snorted with laughter.

Barbara said, ‘What’s sodomy?’

‘Oh, Barbara! What they did in Gomorrah.’

Barbara murmured, ‘This Valerie, who she said was—’

‘Another invention,’ Antonia answered stoutly, too stoutly. ‘If she had existed,’ she went on, ‘you would have heard of her.’

‘Would I?’ Barbara was doubtful about this.

Antonia, equally doubtful, said, ‘Of course you would. James is in love with you; when people are in love they tell each other everything, all their past, the lot.’

‘The more fools they,’ said Barbara with a flash of percipience.

W
AITING FOR HIS GUESTS
to arrive, Henry caught sight of his reflection in the french windows. Would it have been wiser to wear his honest old dinner jacket? No, let Hector in his white tuxedo suffer a pang of envy. Let the pipe-stem trousers, mulberry velvet coat worn over a cream silk shirt, pale blue stock and cummerbund, all from Saville Row and Jermyn Street in bygone ages, outshine Hector’s sharkskin.

My forefathers, thought Henry wryly, were not in the habit of stinting themselves. I am like them physically, he thought; they wore these clothes at their parties. Then, staring at his faint reflection, he questioned: Am I wise to revive a custom long dead? Would my father have revived it? And my mother? Ah, thought Henry, my mother! We may be built the same, my old pa and I, but it stops there; in our marriages we are poles apart. What would my mother have made of Margaret? She would, thought Henry, turning away from his reflection, have put a smart stop to that flight of Father’s fancy. Looking out at the white-clothed tables laid ready for the party, the sparkling glass, shining silver, and Antonia’s and Barbara’s floral arrangements, he imagined his mother’s voice. ‘A pretty idea,’ she would have said, ‘but have you envisaged its consequences?’

His father would have accepted some suggested alternative which would equally serve his purpose. Henry sighed, remembering his mother. Dying, she had told him, ‘Take care of your father, darling. Without me he will be a brakeless toboggan.’ Furious with her for dying, he had shouted, ‘Of course I shall,’ and it was years later, when he had come to terms with her loss, that he remembered her adding in a whisper, ‘And your emotional brakes leave much to be desired. A bit on the wonky side—’

He had not, in adolescence, cared for this criticism, pushing it aside in a fury of grief. What would she advocate now? Would she suggest a divorce, or would she recognize its impossibility?

Margaret did not commit adultery, nor would she desert him. Counsel, when consulted, had suggested that since adultery and desertion were in the eyes of the law the only cause for divorce, he should sue his wife for the restitution of conjugal rights. ‘That might get things moving,’

Appalled by this suggestion, he had exclaimed, ‘That’s the last thing I want!’

Losing interest, Counsel had said, ‘Then I can’t help you. If she won’t take a lover or desert you, you are stuck waiting for the Grim Reaper.’ Then, reviving slightly, ‘One hears she’s a good looker; surely, if you kept your eyes open, there might be some sexual slip? Bit of hope along those lines? It would be natural, would it not?’

Disgusted, Henry had flared up. ‘If anyone commits adultery, as you insist on calling it, it is I who do.’

‘Well, well,’ said Counsel, positively genial, ‘and isn’t she interested?’ And when Henry answered, ‘No,’ Counsel said, ‘Sad.’ And that, apart from his plump fee, had been the end of it and his marriage, such as it was, continued as before.

‘What are you thinking, Henry? A penny for your thoughts.’ Calypso, coming out through the house, slid her hand through his arm. ‘My,’ she said, ‘you look elegant. That’s your dear old pa’s get-up, isn’t it?’

‘His pa’s, actually. Father belonged to the Oxford bags era; grandfather’s was the pipe-stem. I didn’t hear you arrive. Where’s Hector?’ Henry bent to kiss Calypso’s cheek.

‘He’s parking the car. What were you thinking? You looked rather grim.’

‘I was contemplating murdering Margaret,’ said Henry, who had reached in his thoughts his usual conclusion. If he had not been in love with Calypso, if he had not heard that she had married Hector, he would not have got so drunk that on receiving his father’s letter while still in an alcoholic stupor he had acted instantly, quixotically and fatally. ‘I was wondering how to set about it,’ he said lightly, glad that Calypso had never known of his passion, a passion long since distilled into friendship. ‘But I shan’t bother,’ he said.

‘If you change your mind, let me know how we can help,’ said Calypso. ‘There would be no shortage of volunteers among your friends.’ Then she said, ‘Goodness, Henry, this is like old times. I remember your mother at the last party I came to. She wore a stunning dress. She was a lovely person, and so was your father. Look,’ she said to Hector, who joined them at this moment, ‘look at Henry, he’s wearing his grandfather’s clothes. Puts you in the shade, doesn’t he? Were all Tillotsons your shape, Henry?’

Hector took Henry’s hand. ‘Tailors were tailors in those days,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nothing they enjoyed better than dressing a beanpole. Good to see you. I say, look at that.’ He stared appreciatively at the dinner table. ‘How splendid that all looks! Is Margaret putting in an appearance?’ he asked easily. ‘Any pretty girls to put Calypso on her mettle?’

‘Matthew Stephenson brought Antonia Lowther and Barbara O’Malley came with James Martineau. Both lots, by the way, got themselves engaged last night.’

Calypso said, ‘June moon and hot weather, predictable.’

‘And as to Margaret,’ said Henry, ‘her place is laid and she has a dress; the rest is up to her.’

The three friends stood contemplating Margaret. Then Hector asked, ‘Who else is coming?’

‘The Bullivants.’

‘Big feet,’ murmured Calypso, ‘metaphorically.’

‘And the Jonathans,’ said Henry.

‘The dears,’ said Calypso.

‘Come along, let me get you a drink,’ said Henry.

‘I shall flirt with Pilar,’ said Hector, as they strolled towards the bar. ‘She likes it, I like it and Calypso does not object.’

‘You should do your duty and make verbal passes at Margaret,’ said Calypso, grinning.

‘Too risky,’ said Hector, and burst out laughing so hard that his face, tanned by recent Italian sun, went brick red.

Still thinking of his wife as he uncorked champagne, Henry remembered the occasion when he had asked her to divorce him and the malevolence of her refusal. ‘And how was Italy?’ he asked, pouring the wine.

‘Exquisite as ever, but you know Hector; he needs to get back to his trees.’ Calypso sipped her wine. ‘He thinks they miss him.’

‘I am hoping to import some sweet chestnuts from the woods above Carrara,’ said Hector. ‘I shall get myself snarled up with Customs and Min. of Ag. again.’

‘I always supposed you enjoyed such tussles,’ said Henry.

‘Age blunts my zest, it all takes so long,’ said Hector, ‘but you must come over soon and see the wood.’

Calypso said, ‘Yes, Henry, do; the wood is beginning to look like a wood. You have not been for ages.’

‘Not since I brought Margaret,’ said Henry.

Hector said, ‘Ah. Exactly.’

Calypso suppressed a smile. Hector had been furious out of all proportion when Margaret snapped that beech sapling and uprooted a small yew. (Oh dear! I thought it was a weed!) It would be better, here she agreed with many of Henry’s friends, if Henry ceased his efforts to get his wife out of bed. But I must remember my principles and not interfere, she thought. So she smiled at her husband and Henry and sipped her drink.

Watching Calypso, Henry thought, Oh, bugger it, I am taking an awful risk with this party.

Hector, also watching his wife, asked, ‘Are all those young people besotted with love?’

‘Not so that you’d notice,’ said Henry. ‘I hadn’t really thought, but with the girls it seems more of an—’

‘An arrangement?’ suggested Calypso. ‘I’ve met their families, pretty drear. Extremely worthy, of course.’

Hector said, ‘Now, darling.’

Calypso said, ‘But it’s true, you must agree.’

Henry said, ‘Both girls have been to see Margaret.’

‘Did they emerge intact?’ asked Calypso.

‘Since you saw her last,’ said Henry, ignoring Calypso’s query, ‘she’s had her room redecorated.’

‘So she tired of the black and white,’ said Hector. ‘Switched off Cecil Beaton?’

‘It is all gold and mirrors now.’

‘Must cost you a bomb,’ said Hector.

‘It’s good practice for Ebro, he is taking it up professionally,’ said Henry.

‘It can’t cost as much as taking her to stay at Claridges,’ said Calypso, forgetting her earlier resolution.

The friends were silent as they remembered how, a year or two after the war, in an effort to surprise his wife from her habit of bed, Henry had contrived to get her up to London in the hope of distracting her with plays, concerts and exhibitions. Arriving in London, Margaret had holed up in Claridges. It had taken six weeks to extract her, and the promise of a new bed.

Henry said, ‘Well,’ feeling sheepish.

Calypso said, ‘I am not mocking,’ and thought, He is afraid of scenes.

Henry said, ‘Of course you’re not,’ rather stiffly.

‘I suppose,’ said Hector, ‘she still plays gin rummy with Trask? And has a masseuse and the lady to do her face and has all her meals brought up on trays and buys clothes she never wears—’

Calypso said, ‘Hector, stop it!’

Hector said, ‘Lancing a boil.’

Henry said, ‘Not the sort of boil that goes away, but thanks for trying.’

‘And she isn’t mad,’ said Calypso. ‘I blame your father.’

‘My father had nothing to do with it,’ said Henry defensively.

Calypso said, ‘Yes, he
did.
He pickled you in his principles when you were little. You grew up defenceless. You were
much
too nice! I can’t believe he had nothing to do with it.’ Then, seeing Henry’s expression, she said, ‘Sorry, Henry. Hector is about to yell at me to shut up and mind my own business, so I shall, before he does.’

‘I was wondering,’ said Henry, as he refilled their glasses, ‘whether you would like a few young hollies for your wood, Hector?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Hector. ‘Thank you.’

Hector and Calypso thought of the defensive prickles of holly
vis-a-vis
Margaret and felt a little better about her.

Henry said, ‘Good, I’ll bring them over in the autumn and help you plant them.’

‘Henry,’ Pilar called from the house, ‘can we bring the food out now?’

Henry excused himself and went indoors. Hector took his wife’s arm and they strolled down the garden. He said, ‘D’you suppose Margaret is mad?’

Calypso said, ‘Sane as they come. Bad. It’s not as though she can’t get out of bed; she can and does. She simply prefers the horizontal, and solo at that.’

Hector said, ‘Henry’s father was a crony of my parents before he married—’

‘What was he like in those days? I never knew him well.’

‘By my father’s account he was a sort of Tropic of Cancer character, who souped up Paris in the twenties, but when he met Henry’s mother he converted to high principles and changed completely, and with his dying breath wrecked Henry’s life.’

‘How?’

‘He imposed his ideals on his son,’ said Hector, not answering his wife’s query.

‘How d’you know?’ Calypso repeated.

Hector, not prepared to admit that he listened to gossip, still did not answer.

‘The old man was pretty marvellous when he rescued Pilar,’ said Calypso. ‘She and Ebro would have died if it had not been for him.’

Hector said, ‘True.’

‘And Henry goes on being good to her and she repays him. I wish,’ said Calypso, ‘that
I
had a Pilar to run our house. What a help she would be with Hamish.’ (Hamish being Hector and Calypso’s schoolboy son.)