Dubious Legacy (20 page)

Henry said, ‘Have you been crying?’

Barbara answered crossly, ‘I got shampoo in my eyes.’

Henry looked past her into the hall. ‘Would you like to come out to lunch?’

Barbara yelped, ‘No,’ and tears coursed freshly down her cheeks.

Henry said, ‘What’s the matter, Barbara? What’s wrong?’

Barbara shook her head and tried to wipe her tears with a corner of the towel. ‘Nothing.’

Henry said, ‘Where is James?’

Barbara said, ‘Sailing,’ spinning the word into a wail.

‘Who with?’

Barbara let out a loud hiccuping cry.

Henry put both arms round her and held her close; she leaned against his chest and howled. The towel round her head fell off. Henry held her with one hand and gently stroked her damp hair with the other. He said, ‘You’ve had a row.’

Barbara nodded against his shirt.

Henry said, ‘Delicious shampoo.’ Then he said, ‘You’ll give yourself a headache.’

She said, ‘I’ve got one.’

He still stroked her hair, teasing it away from her face. He said, ‘Let’s go and sit down somewhere,’ and led her upstairs to her drawing room. The sun was shining in quite nicely through the window at the back and the wisteria and vine framed it as Barbara and James had hoped it would. Henry made Barbara sit on the sofa and sat beside her with his arm round her and his legs stretched out. He said, ‘This row?’

Barbara said, ‘Valerie,’ her voice choking up into a whoop.

Henry’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing. Barbara pushed back her hair with a shaky hand and said, ‘I’ve ruined your tie.’

Henry squinted at his tie, which was indeed smeared with tears and snot. He said, ‘No matter, it will clean.’

From another garden came the sound of children’s voices, squeaks of enjoyment and laughter. Henry said gently, ‘This row?’

Barbara snuffled, took a deep breath and said, ‘He’s gone down to his boat on the Solent; he likes sailing.’

Aware of James’s penchant for small boats, Henry said, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s the baby,’ Barbara began. ‘The baby he wants to have. He wants it so much that I’ve become infected;
I
want it too. I never particularly—well, not much I don’t think, well, not until Antonia—Then, when Antonia did, of course I thought I would too. I threw my Dutch cap out of the window and
nothing happened.’
Barbara’s voice, husky with crying, trailed to a halt.

Henry remained quiet, holding her with her head against his shoulder. She said, ‘Have you got a handkerchief? This towel is soaking and making my nose sore.’ Henry fished a handkerchief from his cuff and gave it to her. I could do with some new shoes, he thought, looking down at his feet. I got this pair in the war, they are years old but lasted well. He crossed his feet at the ankles. Barbara dropped the towel on the floor and blew her nose in the handkerchief. ‘We had a
terrible
row,’ she said. ‘He’s been niggling at me for not getting pregnant.’ She balled the handkerchief in her fist. ‘Making biblical allusions to barren women. It’s stupid because he never reads the Bible, hasn’t since school, I should think. Anyway, he keeps saying it’s my fault, that I’m not fertile, that I can’t, that I’m not trying, that I don’t care. And all the time I
know
it’s him.’ Barbara sobbed again, gasping for breath.

There was a blackbird singing in a neighbouring garden, the chatter of sparrows. In the street a taxi drew up. Its door slammed, it drove away.

Barbara said, ‘You see, it’s James. He doesn’t know I know he went to see a specialist—he’d made
me
go ages ago; it was horribly embarrassing. He doesn’t know I looked through his letters and read the result of the tests he had, he doesn’t know I know there’s a ninety per cent chance he may never father a child, he doesn’t know I know his sperm isn’t active or up to much. He doesn’t think I’m the sort of girl who reads her husband’s letters—so when, this morning, he said he was going sailing and why didn’t I come for once, sea-sickness wasn’t morning sickness, it popped out. We’d been arguing about moving house; he’d said, “We will need a bigger house when we have a family.” I said, “What family? We are not very likely to have a family with your pollen count so low.” I’d forgotten the proper medical term, of course. Oh, Henry, he
exploded.’

Henry murmured, ‘Pride.’

‘Of course,’ Barbara shouted, ‘his pride. Henry, he yelled at me. I’ve never seen him so worked up; he positively screamed. He went on and on and then quite suddenly he stopped, stared at me, then went to the telephone and I heard him ring up Valerie and ask her to go sailing with him. Henry, do you suppose he’s been seeing her all this time?’

‘And did she say she would?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’d left the room, slammed the door, shut myself in the loo. Of course she said yes.’

Henry murmured, ‘Mm.’

‘The dreadful thing is, Henry, that I never really believed she existed. I half thought, I hoped she was one of Margaret’s inventions. You know what Margaret’s like.’

Henry said, ‘Boring girl. She married a millionaire.’

‘So she
does
exist! What is she like?’

‘Dull.’

‘But in
bed?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh.’

‘Look, Barbara.’ Henry sat up straight. ‘I’m starving, it’s long after my lunch-time. Put some black specs on and come and eat.’

‘Henry!’

‘Buck up. Come on, your hair is dry.’

‘I can’t come like this.’

‘Yes you can, don’t argue. You don’t have to impress me.’

Henry took her to a quiet and dark restaurant, which seemed even darker viewed through her black glasses. A waiter led them to a remote table. As Barbara sat down, she said, ‘James will never forgive me for reading his letters.’

Henry, studying the wine list, said, ‘He is probably relieved that you did.’

Barbara said, ‘Oh?’, disbelieving.

Henry ordered wine and asked the waiter to bring it quickly. It was delicious, sliding down her throat, sore with weeping, as innocuously as barley water. Barbara drained her glass while Henry ordered lunch; the waiter refilled it, and brought smoked trout.

Barbara said, ‘I am too upset to eat.’

Henry said, ‘Don’t be a fool. Eat some bread and butter with it,’ and she obeyed.

When tiny lamb cutlets with green peas, French beans and miniscule new potatoes appeared she failed to protest, but ate them with mint and redcurrant jellies while admiring the conjunction of colours.

The waiter changed their plates and brought them succulent artichokes from Brittany. Barbara drank more wine.

Henry said, ‘What garbage did Margaret concoct about Valerie?’

Barbara scraped an artichoke leaf across her lower teeth. ‘She said they bounced in bed and the springs made so much noise it kept her awake.’

Henry said, ‘Well, I never!’ and laughed.

Barbara said, ‘It is not at all funny.’

Henry said, ‘I find it so, and anyway James had not met you in those days.’

‘But it happened, and he yearns for her.’ Barbara’s voice rose.

Henry said, ‘Don’t start up again, you will embarrass me.’

Barbara said, ‘I shouldn’t think, after being married to Margaret all these years, that anyone could embarrass you.’

Henry said, ‘I see you feel better. Let me refill your glass.’

Barbara allowed this. They were on to their second bottle and finishing their artichokes. She regretfully ate the last bit of heart and, dabbling her fingers in the finger-bowl, tweaked at a borage flower floating in the water.

Henry said, ‘Could you manage crème brulée or mountain strawberries?’

Barbara was game. Henry ordered, and coffee for both of them. He said, ‘If you were to see Valerie, you would stop fussing.’

Barbara said, ‘I don’t
want
to see her. What’s she like?’

Henry said, ‘Blond, tall, rather long torso, big bottom but beginning to sag in front, a voice that grates.’

Barbara said, ‘Grates?’

‘On the nerves,’ Henry said. ‘And I seem to remember she didn’t smell too good.’

‘Smell?’

‘Wrong kind of scent, too strong. One wondered what it covered up.’

‘Oh!’

Henry asked, ‘More coffee?’

Barbara said, ‘I think I’d better,’ rather primly.

Henry ordered more coffee and asked for the bill.

Barbara said, ‘James is kind, James is sweet, I love him.’

Henry said, ‘Of course you do,’ and calculated the tip.

Barbara went on, ‘I want to make him happier and be more wonderful than Valerie ever did. I want to hold him close in my arms but so far I disappoint him.’

‘You weren’t in love with him when you married him.’ Henry was matter-of-fact.

Barbara cried, ‘But I am now,’ her voice rising.

Henry said, ‘I’ll walk you home,’ and led her out into the street.

Barbara said, ‘Gosh. The sun! Mine eyes dazzle,’ and rocked on her high heels. Henry took her arm.

O
N THE DOORSTEP HENRY
asked, ‘Got your key?’ Taking it from her, he let them into the house. The hall was cool and dark, the street noises muffled. Barbara kicked off her shoes, took off her dark glasses and, laying them on the hall table, stood adjusting her eyes to the change.

Henry said, ‘Upstairs. It’s time for a siesta,’ and gave her a push. In her bedroom he helped her undress.

In bed Barbara said, ‘I’ve never done it like this,’ and, ‘I say, I like that!’ and, ‘I wonder whether James—’ and, ‘I bet Valerie doesn’t—’ and, ‘I never knew you could—’ and dissolved into helpless giggles.

Henry got out of bed and drew the curtains.

Barbara said, ‘I’m sorry I laughed.’

Henry said, ‘Half the fun of bed is laughter,’ and settled back in the bed with his arm round her shoulders.

Barbara said, ‘I had not realized about the laughter. Thanks.’

Henry stretched his legs down the bed until his toes stuck out at the bottom.

‘Margaret,’ Barbara said, ‘told Antonia and me that you were homosexual.’

‘And?’ Henry yawned.

‘Horses.’ Barbara snuffled with merriment.

Henry said, ‘Go to sleep,’ and turned on his side.

Barbara said, ‘Call-girls! You told me call-girls, long ago. Is this what you—’

Henry said, ‘Oh, Barbara, grow up.’

When Barbara woke, Henry was gone. She sat up, pushing her hair from her face. She felt extremely well. She got out of bed and began picking her clothes off the floor. As she put her dress on a hanger and moved towards the cupboard to hang it, the telephone rang; it was Antonia.

‘Are you coming down this weekend? We thought you’d be here and you’re not.’

‘I had a sort of migraine.’

‘You don’t have migraine.’

‘Well, I
did.
It’s better.’

‘Are you coming? It’s so lovely. Henry is away. The boyfriends say he went to London and took some of their potatoes.’

‘He left some in our area. I was out.’

‘Are you coming? Do come, it’s dull without you. We are going to swim.’

Barbara said, ‘I’ll see, I might come tomorrow. James is sailing.’

‘Then you must come, don’t be lonely.’

Barbara said, ‘I’ll see—’ and replaced the receiver.

She felt relaxed and lethargic. She tidied the bed, changing the sheets, slapping the pillows, humming a tune. She opened the window wide, pulling back the curtains. The blackbird was singing again in the neighbour’s garden. Someone had their radio on; it was Mozart, no, Bizet. She ran the bath.

Lying in the bath, she heard James’s key click in the front door. He shouted anxiously up the stairs, ‘Darling?’

Barbara called back, ‘I’m in the bath,’ and listened as he slammed the front door shut and raced up the stairs. She sponged her face, pressing the warm sponge to her nose.

James came in and stood looking down at her. Barbara looked up at him. James said, ‘Darling, I love you so. Oh God, why don’t you say: And how was Valerie?’ His face was white.

Barbara smiled.

James said, ‘I’ve had a rotten day. The tide was all wrong and no wind. Valerie wasn’t with me; you knew that, I suppose? I made it up, I pretended I was talking to her. I sailed alone and got stuck on a mud bank, I’ve been thinking of you all day. I’m so ashamed. So sorry. Oh, darling!’

Barbara said, ‘Help me out of the bath,’ and held up her hands.

‘Are you hurt? Are you all right? What happened?’

Barbara said, ‘I’m fine, never better.’

James wrapped her towel round her and held her. He said, ‘I was monstrous. I love you so much, I can’t think why I—Oh, Barbara!’ He was near tears.

Barbara said, ‘Hush my love, hush. I love you too,’ and put her arms round his neck. ‘I’ll make you all wet,’ she said.

‘As if it mattered,’ James exclaimed. And then, ‘Do you think it’s too early to go to bed? I do so want to hold you and—oh, I’ve been thinking of you all day—’

Barbara said, ‘Not a bit too early, get undressed.’ Her voice was still throaty from the morning’s tears. ‘Hurry up,’ she said as she pulled back the sheet and, picking an almost black hair from the pillow, got into bed. ‘I’m still damp,’ she said. ‘Antonia telephoned, wanted me to go down to Cotteshaw—’

James said, ‘Oh God, I might have come in and found you gone. What an awful thought. I should have been totally suicidal, thought you’d left me.’

‘I haven’t left you.’

‘No, thanks be. And let’s stay here, have the weekend—Unless you want to go down, then of course we—’

She said, ‘No, no. All I want is to be more wonderful and loving and fun in bed than Valerie.’

James said, ‘I can’t
think
what I saw in Valerie. She chucked me, you know. I never told you, did I? But she was already going off, I mean her looks, like soft fruit. And she went right off
me
and she had such a sharp tongue. Oh, darling, let’s forget about Valerie.’

Barbara said, ‘Willingly.’

James said, ‘Then later on we will go and have a super tremendous dinner. I’ll think of a restaurant. Did you have any lunch?’

Barbara said, ‘I had a sort of snack,’ and kissed him.

As she drifted off to sleep Barbara remembered Henry’s socks. Handknitted and longer than the socks James wore, Henry’s socks reached to just below the knee. They were cable-stitched in brilliant scarlet silk and the braces which supported his trousers were scarlet, too. I must get some for James, she thought; blue would be nice.