Dubious Legacy (19 page)

‘I do mourn that dress,’ said Barbara.

‘I promise I will buy you one. You are a brave and splendid girl.’ James stopped, put his arms round her and kissed her warmly.

Barbara said, ‘That’s nice, do it again.’

‘I feel,’ said James, ‘what the French call
emu.
What’s the word in English?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Barbara, kissing him. They walked on hand in hand.

James said, ‘Actually, it’s rather a good idea.’

Barbara said, ‘What is? Buying me a dress?’

‘No. What she suggested. Coming here as paying guests, we could sort of share. It would be cheaper than a cottage and Pilar keeps it running, anyway.’

Barbara said, ‘James!’

James said, ‘If we did pay, just a bit, not all that much, we could come whenever we wanted, not wait to be invited.’

‘James, she’s a crazy woman.’

‘It isn’t a crazy suggestion. I shall think it over. We could come here often and bring the children.’

Barbara said, ‘What children?’

‘Ours, silly. I shall talk to Matthew. Henry may have discussed it all with Margaret.’

‘They are not on those terms,’ said Barbara.

‘You never know what goes on between married people,’ James said sententiously.

Barbara grinned and said, ‘What a funny mind you have.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’ James eyed her sharply.

‘You’ll find out when we are married.’ She laughed.

‘And if you don’t like sailing, you could come here while I sail.’ James spoke half to himself.

‘Or go shopping
chez
Dior,’ said Barbara. ‘Super!’

James made no reply but took her hand.

‘There’s the lake,’ said Barbara, ‘over there, look.’

James said, ‘I wonder what it’s like to swim in?’

Barbara said, ‘Let’s find out,’ remembering and keeping to herself her magical swim of the day before.

‘There are the others,’ said James. ‘Let’s go the other side; they will want to be on their own. I dare say Antonia wants to make it up to Matthew, she behaved rather badly last night.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Not liking her tone, James said, ‘She called him—’

‘Wet,’ said Barbara, ‘and he was.’

‘Barbara.’ James was stirred by masculine loyalty. ‘Matthew is not the sort to be wet—’

Scenting trouble, Barbara said, ‘Why don’t we strip? I can see that the others have.’ And I wonder how I compare with Valerie, she thought, as she took off her clothes.

But James was not comparing her with Valerie. ‘You are lovely,’ he said, ‘absolutely smashing,’ and tried to catch her before she dived. I am a lucky fellow, he thought, nipping out of his trousers.

Catching up with Barbara in mid-lake, James trod water. ‘Let me kiss you,’ he said, and when they had kissed, ‘I shall ask Matthew what he thinks.’

‘About what?’ She shook the water from her ears.

‘Sharing Henry’s house.’

‘Not a good idea.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘Antonia won’t think so,’ Barbara jeered.

‘I bet you are wrong there and Henry—’

‘Do we share Henry as well as his house? I’m getting cold, I’m going in.’ She swam for the bank.

James shouted, ‘Don’t be like that,’ and followed her. ‘It would help Henry,’ he said as he climbed the bank.

Barbara said, ‘I don’t see how, and I am like that.’

James said, ‘I don’t want to argue.’ It suddenly seemed of vital importance to get his own way. He had rarely got his own way with Valerie.

‘Ask Matthew then and see what Antonia says.’ Barbara. dried herself and stepped into her knickers. ‘Hand me my sweater,’ she said, ‘I am cold.’

‘Matthew will see the sense of it, leap at the idea. And Antonia—’

‘Antonia will say, You must be joking,’ scoffed Barbara. ‘That you are out of your tiny mind.’ Suddenly an argument which had started half-joking became serious. It had not occurred to James that men in couples engaged or married did not run the show, but here was Barbara overruling him.

‘Let’s go and ask them,’ said James, who had put on his shoes. ‘Race you round the lake.’

Barbara, with one shoe on and one shoe off, watched him run; he ran well, she thought. He looked rather splendid. She pulled on her shoe and ambled good-naturedly in his wake. ‘I should have hurried,’ she said later to Antonia, ‘put on a spurt.’

‘It would have made no odds,’ her friend replied.

Arriving, Barbara found that James had set his idea in train and Matthew was listening. One of the things Barbara had yet to discover about James was that in matters of business he could be both brief and imaginative. Matthew, sitting by the lake on a hot summer day, was enthusiastic.

‘It could work a treat,’ he said. ‘Save everybody a lot of trouble.’

‘How d’you work that out?’ asked Antonia.

‘And money,’ said Matthew, ignoring her. ‘Syndicates are the thing these days.’

James said, ‘Absolutely.’

‘Nice to be near friends,’ said Matthew.

‘What friends?’ asked Antonia.

‘The Grants—’

‘You hardly know them,’ said Antonia.

‘Don’t quibble, darling.’ Matthew stretched out and took her hand.

‘What about Margaret?’ Barbara had not yet spoken.

‘You saw her yourself this morning,’ said James.

‘And how was she?’ asked Antonia.

‘As kind and normal as any country house hostess I’ve ever come across. Barbara will bear me out on that. Very concerned for Henry. She thinks he overworks; she thinks he’s lonely. Actually, in a way, it was she who started the idea. I suspect she worries about the place getting run down and leaps at the idea of putting a bit of life into it.’

‘That’s not what she said,’ said Barbara.

‘It’s what she meant,’ said James.

Barbara, thinking of Margaret and the insinuations she had made when she and Antonia had visited her first, opened her mouth to speak but closed it; it was not for her to resurrect Valerie or spread rumours of Henry’s sexual mores.

‘You must admit,’ James was saying, ‘that she couldn’t have been nicer this morning.’

‘But what about last night?’ said Antonia.

‘Some sort of
crise,’
said James. ‘A joke which turned sour, something like that.’

Antonia and Barbara exchanged glances.

‘No harm in putting the idea to Henry,’ said Matthew, yawning. ‘Are you going to swim again? There’s a lot to be said for a private lake. I’m going in. Race you across, James.’

Barbara stood with her friend watching the young men swim naked, racing like seals.

Antonia said, ‘They shrink in cold water.’

Barbara said, ‘What?’ and as Antonia did not reply she said reproachfully, ‘You did not put up much of a fight.’

‘Because I’m not altogether against it,’ said Antonia and began to laugh. ‘Oh my, my!’ she said, laughing. ‘I foresee repercussions.’

‘D
ON’T LET HER TAKE
all the best veg this weekend, you know what she’s like.’ Jonathan eased his back and leaned on his hoe.

‘Don’t hoe any deeper than that,’ said John. ‘Remember the carrot-fly.’

‘She’s avaricious,’ agreed his older friend. ‘My poor back,’ he said, ‘is giving me gyp. What time are they coming?’

‘They usually arrive about six to suit infant Susan’s bedtime, as you well know,’ sighed John.

‘Ah,’ said the older man, ‘that baby! If we don’t watch out, she will have those carrots. It isn’t only your back; mine is in sympathetic agony,’ he said, stretching. The friends laid their hoes aside and relaxed on a seat under a fig tree.

It was four years since the summer dinner party; there had been changes at Cotteshaw. For eighteen months now the Jonathans had rented the walled garden from Henry, adding its produce to that of their own cottage and retailing it from a stall at the local market, along with their hams, sausages, bacon, eggs, chickens and herbs.

‘If we don’t watch out she will have those carrots,’ repeated John crossly. ‘I spotted her eyeing them last week. It’s a sin to mash baby carrots, let’s fob her off with spinach. It’s supposed to be good for infants.’

‘An exploded myth,’ said the older man. ‘But she won’t know,’ he added cheerfully.

The ‘she’ the Jonathans referred to was Antonia Stephenson, who nowadays came regularly with Matthew and their baby for weekends to occupy a pair of bedrooms they had redecorated with Ebro’s help, and make free with the drawing room and other downstairs rooms, as did James and Barbara who came less regularly, but whose foothold at Cotteshaw was equally strong.

‘She told Pilar that she wants another child,’ said John, puffing out a moustache longer and more luxuriant than it had been at the party; it almost concealed his lower lip.

‘Oh God,’ said Jonathan. ‘As if the world was not over-populated. I bet it’s Matthew, not Antonia, who wants it. Antonia’s not particularly maternal.’

‘Matthew wants a son; poor little Susie is the wrong sex,’ said the younger man. ‘Does Antonia know Henry is away, one wonders?’

‘The absence of Henry is balanced by Pilar,’ said Jonathan. ‘Their au pair has the weekend off and Pilar is potty about babies and takes the little mite off her parents’ hands.’

‘Lucky mite.’ The two men surveyed their rows of spring vegetables: trim, neat, succulent, geometric; their
oeuvre.

‘We shall get a fine crop of figs,’ said the younger man, looking up into the tree. ‘Babies don’t like figs.’

‘Nor do they like artichokes,’ said his friend.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we pull these carrots now? Then, what the eye doesn’t see, the heart won’t miss.’

‘Good idea,’ said Jonathan, getting to his feet. ‘She has to learn. Last year she and Matthew scooped the lot. We’ll tell her they had carrot-fly and we lost the crop; she knows nothing about gardening.’

‘Is Barbara coming?’ asked John, as they set to to pull the carrots. ‘And James?’

‘I heard Pilar say James is sailing this weekend, so she may come alone.’

‘That’s no way to match up with Antonia,’ said John thoughtfully.

‘Does she want to?’ asked Jonathan.

‘They have always run in tandem, it would be funny if she didn’t. I was a bit surprised she let Antonia produce first,’ said John. ‘Not that I enjoy watching the process. Although the end result is OK if one goes by tiny Susie.’

‘Barbara’s effort will also be dumped on Pilar. Those girls take advantage,’ said Jonathan.

‘Pilar doesn’t mind; they are a change from Margaret.’

‘At least Margaret remains barren,’ snorted Jonathan. ‘And fair do’s, they pay rent, which helps Henry keep, the house going; no use hankering after old times.’

‘These new times, though—sometimes you’d think the whole place belonged to that lot,’ grumbled John.

‘Well, at least they won’t get these carrots,’ said his lover amiably. ‘And if Barbara starts off with a boy, Antonia’s nose will be twisted.’

‘We’d better give a bunch to Pilar for Margaret,’ said Jonathan as they ambled towards their car. ‘She refused to eat them last season, so she may like them this. What do you think?’

‘She threw the vegetable dish at Hector and Lysander, according to Pilar; they gobbled them up off the carpet,’ said John. ‘All right, it’s worth a try, but make it a small bunch, darling.’

‘Is Henry delivering the new potatoes?’ questioned Jonathan. ‘If he is, it’s very good of him.’

‘A consignment for Barbara and James—James doesn’t want his new car sullied by sacks of pots. Matthew and Antonia are not so precious,’ said John.

‘Matthew and Antonia have not got a new car, my dear.’

‘And why,’ said John, ‘is it so good of Henry to ferry a bag of potatoes for us, if I may make so bold as to ask?’

‘It wastes time which might be better occupied,’ answered the older man. ‘He doesn’t often get away from the farm.’

‘And how, one wonders, does Henry occupy his time? I believe you would like him to be trolling round the sleazy joints of Soho.’

Jonathan laughed. ‘I would like to think he was lunching with a pretty woman and doing what comes naturally afterwards. But you know, and I know, he visits his bank and his solicitor, has his hair cut, buys Margaret an expensive present he can’t afford, browses among the new books at Hatchards and, if he feels peckish, has a sandwich in a pub.’

‘Right,’ said the younger man. ‘And the odds are that Margaret chucks the expensive present out of the window.’

‘Let’s face it, my dear,’ said the older man, as he climbed into the driving seat. ‘Henry leads a pretty boring life.’

‘And who is responsible for that?’ niggled the younger man, expecting no answer and receiving none.

Henry drove west towards Chelsea to deliver James and Barbara’s sack of new potatoes. He had visited his bank and his solicitor, and had his hair cut at Penhaligon’s. From Fortnum & Mason he had bought Margaret a present, the cost of which had made him linger less than usual in Hatchards.

James and Barbara’s small, steep house was in that part of Chelsea equidistant from the Brompton and King’s Roads; it faced north but had a garden at the back which was sunny. Here, in their first flush of marriage, James had planted a wisteria and Barbara a vine.

Henry’s brakes squealed as he drew up. He humped the potatoes down the area steps and rang the bell. Anybody passing could help themselves to the potatoes, he thought, as nobody answered. Perhaps the cleaning lady was operating the Hoover; he would try the front door. Idly he pressed the bell with his thumb. The door flew open. Barbara stood in the half-dark of a narrow hall. She said, ‘Oh!’ and, backing away, tried to shut the door.

Henry put his foot in the jamb. ‘I brought the spuds you wanted from the Jonathans.’

Barbara said hoarsely, ‘Oh, thanks, Henry. Could you move your foot?’

Henry said, ‘No,’ and pushed the door.

Barbara pushed back.

Henry said, ‘What’s the matter, Barbara?’ and pushed harder.

Barbara said, ‘I was washing my hair.’

Pushing the door open, Henry said, ‘So I see,’ and walked in, closing the door behind him.

Barbara had a towel wrapped round her head, but under it her face was white with greyish blotches and her nose and eyes were puffed and swollen.