Authors: Adele Parks
Sarah was thirty-one but felt older. She had ceased to be young the moment Arthur signed up to defend King and Country. The weight of fear and dread had engulfed her for ten months, leaving her skittish and unreasonable. She found it impossible to care about the things other young women did, such as going to the cinema or learning the latest dance craze; all she cared about was him coming home. Safely. When he didn’t return, the fear and dread was replaced by the more cumbersome weight of grief and responsibility, which sapped all her energy and any remaining vitality. After the telegram, the world was simply never as colourful again. Besides the everyday changes that his death brought – financial insecurity, the terror of bringing up two children without a father and the social demotion of being a widow rather than a wife – her world turned grey because she missed him. She missed him so much. When she first read the telegram her heart heaved. It felt as though it had jumped right out of her body and escaped. She was sure it was severed from her because she felt nothing but shock. Horror. But then it returned. She knew it had come back because it hurt so much. There was an actual excruciating pain in her chest for days, weeks. She felt that someone was squeezing the life out of her by clasping her heart tightly. The grip was agony. She would die too. She’d loved him so! He had been a handsome, honest, funny man. He’d made her feel safe and valued. She missed his conversation, his jokes, his arms, the smell of his pipe. She missed the weight of him in bed at night.
Initially everyone respected her right to shun company, but after two or three months, well-meaning visitors returned and told her she had to buck up and carry on, ‘At least for the sake of the children’. There was too much general grief to allow anyone the luxury of personal wallowing. Eminently sensible Sarah knew this advice was wise and fair, although it didn’t make it any more palatable. She did buck up: she forced herself to style her hair in the mornings (although she still kept it long and wore it in a bun, clasped at the back of her neck, as she’d worn it when Arthur went to war; she didn’t bother to keep up with fashions), she took the children on outings, escorted her sister to tea dances and, when Samuel came back injured, she spent a lot of her time helping Cecily with all her responsibilities. Sarah lived a perfectly useful life. She found pleasure in small things, such as knitting pullovers for the children; the repetitive click-clack of the needles soothed her through the dark evenings. She liked to take long walks in the country with the children; if there was a wind, they’d fly kites; if the air was still, they’d play with a ball. She went to church regularly and tried not to ask why too often. The one thing she could not return to was gardening. She no longer enjoyed the feel of mud beneath her fingers; the earthy smells distressed her, the wriggling worms revolted her, and once, the stench of rotting foliage made her physically vomit. She made jam and visited elderly neighbours, she read poetry. Undoubtedly she was old before her time.
Sarah’s apathy towards outings such as this weekend party at Sir Peter Pondson-Callow’s country estate was because she firmly believed that she had already had her fill of life. She did not hope or expect to meet an equal to Arthur; everyone else was simply less. It was hard to eternally deal with less. She was prepared to creep into middle age, inaudibly and carefully. She did not want to cause anyone too much trouble and she very much hoped she could be useful to those around her. Being useful was a poor relation to being loved, yet it was some sort of solace for the broken-hearted.
However, Beatrice’s case was quite dissimilar. Beatrice was twenty-six. She had never been kissed. It was easy to forget her relative youth because her density somehow negated any thoughts of girlishness; her surprising height and solid breadth was equated with maturity at best, masculinity at worst. Beatrice’s comely body stayed under wraps; woollen stockings and flannel petticoats had not fallen from her repertoire. It was miserable that she was still totally unaware how it felt to have someone’s lips crush down on hers, or to experience the exquisite and erotic strangeness of another tongue inside her mouth. The thought sent shards of regret through Sarah’s body. She longed for her sister, at least once, to feel what Sarah had felt in Arthur’s arms. She was a realistic woman and did not think that finding a husband, or even a regular lover, was a foregone conclusion for Beatrice; far from it. Bea’s age, weight and financial situation all conspired against her now there was such a scarcity of men; in all probability she was destined to be an old maid. Sarah, though, was a determined and hopeful woman and refused to deal in probability; she could not yet quite give up on the
possibility
that there might be a man out there who would do just perfectly for her sister. A man who would appreciate her quiet, shy manner and warm, open heart. Perhaps an older man. A widower who was looking for a wife to help with an established family; the sort of man who might not be averse to adding another baby to the nursery. Or maybe she would find a wounded soldier. There were so many men who had naturally lost their confidence and
joie de vivre
when they lost an arm or leg in France. Beatrice might turn out to be a patient nurse; if those chaps would only give her a chance, she might yet find some warmth and companionship. Sarah knew that widowers and veterans were not likely to be found in their own drawing room, or at least the ones that did visit had already been considered and found unwilling or unsuitable, so it was essential that Beatrice kept circulating. Bea had once commented that she felt like one of those ballerinas in a musical box – the ones that spun on and on in a desperate effort to entertain – but Sarah had told her that nothing was to be gained by becoming fanciful. Bea had to continue to meet new people. They must not give up. Sarah, as her big sister, felt compelled to attend the weekend party, because whilst she was not quite a chaperone, she was at least emotional backing.
Sarah realised that Beatrice’s excitement at accepting the invitation was no doubt also marred by a level of despair about whether her wardrobe, figure and conversation were adequate for such an occasion, not to mention her concern over how much to tip the servants on a country estate. She knew that Beatrice tried not to indulge in self-doubt, but, like every woman, she was more aware than anyone of her own personal disadvantages and drawbacks. Sarah often privately thought it a huge pity that Beatrice had never managed to go up to Oxford. When their father had been alive there had been talk that such a thing was a possibility; although they couldn’t risk educating her before she joined the marriage market, it had been a recognised alternative if her season didn’t prove fruitful. But their father had died when Beatrice was seventeen and the family fortune, such as it was, passed to Samuel. No one could have expected him to put a younger sister through university; he had his own family to provide for. All the same, Sarah was certain that Bea might have done well there. She was by no means slow. Her current conversation was only limited by lack of experiences; reading the newspapers regularly wasn’t enough. Still, there was no point in dwelling.
Sarah’s assumption that Bea was riddled with weight and fashion insecurities proved to be correct. In a desperate attempt to quickly reduce herself, Beatrice had eaten nothing other than grapefruit for three days now. Yet an honest look in the mirror forced her to admit that nonetheless she still had wobbly flesh on her arms and belly, her thighs remained puckered and her bottom continued to sag. In addition, she admitted to terrible acidic cramps in her stomach, and her nephews’ vulgar comments made it impossible to ignore her embarrassing wind.
‘What were you thinking?’ Sarah asked.
‘I thought perhaps if I lost weight I might be able to squeeze into something of Cecily’s.’
‘The skirts would be daringly short, wouldn’t they?’ commented Sarah. Bea towered several inches above any other woman they knew.
In the end, Bea borrowed a sequinned evening cap and an adorable bag, decorated with fine wool petit point. Such joy and gaiety in the brilliant design of two mythological birds! The bag was lined with aqua silk and inside there were two pockets that held a matching change purse and silk-backed mirror. The bag closed with a jewelled
cloisonné
clasp and had a linked chain handle. Beatrice commented that she hoped it was dazzling enough to draw attention from her old and endlessly altered dresses. She fingered the bag repeatedly, as though she was playing with a lover’s hair. Sarah found it hard to believe that she too used to feel such ecstatic entrancement about bags, dresses, dances and shoes. She had persuaded her sister to be bold and splash out on a pair of new evening shoes. ‘Shoddy shoes are a complete giveaway.’ Inspired by Lydia’s terrific fresh hairstyle, Bea had also chosen to take the plunge and have her own chopped. The effect was modern, but not flattering. Her wiry, fiery locks sprung up off her head, and it was almost impossible to get a cloche to sit straight on the springy coils.
Sarah’s other concern on Bea’s behalf was that Ava might not be a perfect hostess. She didn’t doubt there would be hot-water bottles in plush covers, writing paper, stamps and port aplenty; she simply feared that in her own home Ava would see no reason to curb her caustic tongue. All of Ava’s friends were so ornamental, with the notable exception of Bea. Bea would need to gird her heart against the possibility of countless sly digs and jokes at her expense. Sarah couldn’t understand why a woman such as Ava, who had it all – beauty, brains, extreme wealth – would be so cruel as to constantly highlight all that Beatrice lacked. It was pitiless.
Despite her reservations, Sarah was relieved that the weekend got off to a good start. They were a party of thirteen the first night, eight women and five men, including Ava’s parents. The bias in numbers towards the women was notable, but not, Sarah thought, insurmountable. The evening was cheerful and natural; they’d rolled up the rugs, and whilst Sarah had made her excuses before midnight, some, including Bea, had danced until three. By Saturday afternoon Sarah began to relax as she discovered that, rather than degenerating into home manners and being rude or transparent in her impatience with Bea, Ava had upped her game and become considerably more charming and delightful. Sarah suspected that Ava had seen the advantages of surrounding her father with plain or disinterested girls; pretty ones brought with them the shadowy threat of dangerous scandals. Ava had identified a use for Bea and Sarah: they were from a steady, old family and they lent respectability to the Pondson-Callows’ home, something that Sarah knew Ava felt it lacked; they cushioned rumour. Whatever the motivation for her charm, Sarah was grateful for it. Ava was prepared to more than fulfil her responsibility as a hostess; besides serving lavish treats that both sisters enjoyed particularly, she had invited three single chaps to stay, none of whom Beatrice had met before. Bea would have to be made of stone not to be excited.
Lydia, Ava, Beatrice and Sarah sat together in the drawing room. Sarah thought it one of the most beautiful rooms she’d ever been in. In many ways it resembled a number of other country manor drawing rooms she’d visited. Sir Peter and Lady Pondson-Callow had bought this place just a year after the war, but they’d worked swiftly to give the impression it had been in their family for generations. Like many of Britain’s country houses, it had been commandeered during the war and used as a convalescent home; noble and patriotic, no doubt, but disastrous for the state of the grounds and the interior. Then the family who owned it had been hit by towering death duties and had had neither the will nor the means to restore it to its former glory. Rumour had it that Sir Peter had picked it up for a song. Now there were Romneys and Raeburns aplenty hung on the walls, but the portraits were of strangers, not ancestors. On the whole it was conventional and correct, yet it was somehow
more
than similar rooms in other people’s country houses: more resplendent, more inviting. Some might be snobby and point out that the ‘moreness’ betrayed Sir Peter and Lady Pondson-Callow’s newness, but Sarah was generous. She didn’t resent their propensity to be ostentatious; she simply wallowed in the lavishness on offer. The hearth rug was a little thicker than usual, there were perhaps one too many Fabergé cigarette boxes, and the Cartier mantelpiece clock was a little larger than necessary, but the resplendent flower arrangements and generous number of small silver dishes offering up chocolates suggested a genuine desire to welcome. The plump silk cushions, the oyster shot-silk drapes and golden gilded chairs showcased the family’s extreme taste.
Ava’s father was engaged in taking Lady Jennings and one of the highly valued single young men, Harry Fine, on a tour around the house. Two other ladies and Ava’s mother had retired to their rooms to sleep off the excesses of the previous night. The remaining men were in the games room playing billiards. Here in the drawing room the four friends could enjoy each other’s company without being disturbed. There was an enormous fire thriving in the hearth, and even though lunch had barely been cleared, the maids had brought in plates of almonds and segmented pineapple. The women lay about languidly, idly chattering and nibbling; everyone was glad that they had taken a walk this morning and were not expected to brave the bleak, chilly January afternoon. Quite naturally, as they were alone and shrouded by their long-standing intimacy, they talked about the other guests, specifically the single men.
The previous night Sarah had established that Mr Lytton published books. He managed to do so because he was the godson of a peer who, following the Great War, no longer had a son to nurture or support and had therefore taken an interest in Lytton. He introduced him to the right sort of people and, whilst to date there had been little in the way of monetary favours granted, there was always the hope that the peer might settle a private income on him any day now. Sarah had been surprised that Ava had bothered with a working man until she ascertained that Mr Lytton knew a great many bohemian artists and writers, which meant he was always first to offer a mischievous anecdote, and this passed as brilliant conversation. He’d made Ava laugh at least four times last night; a loud and raucous laugh. So few people were able to claim the same thing; no doubt that was how he’d earned his place. He’d arrived on Friday afternoon by train and walked the three miles from the station rather than taking a cab or calling the house to request a car, and had continued to behave strangely since. He’d pronounced himself a vegetarian, had refused to retire with the gentlemen after dinner, saying he preferred women and gossip to men and whisky, and had not brought tweeds with him, but set off on the walk this morning in a dark suit and white shirt, a get-up more suitable for the office than a ramble. Ava, with her sharp eye for quality, must have quickly appraised the suit and, although she could not have failed to notice that it was off-the-peg rather than Savile Row, all she said on the subject was, ‘I do like your tie, Mr Lytton. How would you describe that colour? Saffron?’