When I Was Otherwise (8 page)

“Well, I didn't know if
you
were ever going to,” replied Daisy with her characteristic laugh.

“But you're one of the very first people we've been meaning to get in touch with. In fact,” said Marsha, “you're right at the top of our list!”

“Oh, well done me!” said Daisy. “Then I hadn't been
totally
forgotten? Hurray and hallelujah!”

Marsha had to admit to herself she had perhaps been a little neglectful. Between the funeral and the wedding she had only once been to see Daisy—there had been so very much else to attend to—and although she had indeed tried to telephone her (twice or even three times) Daisy had consistently been out.

“The merry widow,” Erica had christened her.

“Oh, Erica,” said Marsha with a chirrup. “I don't think that's very kind!”

“Kinder than before!” remarked Dan—but with a slightly strained sort of grin; he, of all of them, had always been closest to Henry.

“Oh, what can you mean? Kinder than before?” Marsha stared at them both prettily, prepared to be appalled.

“The merry
black
widow!” said Erica. The two of them giggled naughtily. It seemed immensely funny.

“No, please don't,” Marsha gasped at last. “You mustn't! You know I simply can't bear spiders. Creepy-crawlies! Ugh! I even dream about them. If I were ever to start associating Daisy with anything like that…”

Dan said: “Oh, come off it, Marsha! There was never any woman less like a creepy-crawly than Daisy.”

It was a smiling yet nonetheless stern rebuke; and it had the desired effect on both his wife and sister. Marsha soon began to hum melodies from
The Merry Widow
, not with any satirical intent but only because these were the first which came to mind and she thought, in a slightly chastened mood, that her singing might please Dan. It did. He loved to listen to his sister's voice (Erica, unfortunately, was completely tone-deaf) and when they'd been younger he had often requested her, despite the discrepancy in their ages, to sing to him the popular songs of the moment.

“Do you remember that time on holiday when it rained all afternoon,” she said, “and the two of us had a competition to see who could recognize the greatest number of tunes the other hummed?”

“And you won hands down!” laughed Dan. “It cost me a whole shilling.”

“Yes. Happy days. Ah, happy days!”

No, she didn't mean that, of course. Well, she didn't mean precisely that. It was sometimes difficult to know, even inside her own head, exactly what she did mean. Oh, how she sometimes wished she could have been born with a brain!

She finished singing ‘Velia' and then said, “Well—talking of
The Merry Widow
—
The Gay Divorcée
was just as delightful. Oh, I'll never understand how you two could refuse
to see it!”

“But I thought it was called
The Gay Divorce
,” smiled Erica, emphasizing the last word. “Or were you meaning to provide a better balance…?”

“No, no!” Marsha's giggles threatened to return. “No!
Film Review
says… In America…”

Erica tried to help out. “Will the film be as good as the show?”

“Yes, it will…at least, if you're madly
in love with Fred Astaire…like I am!”

But then she made a really determined effort and finally managed to control herself.

“I'm afraid,” said Erica, “we may have to pass on to Andrew what you've just told us.” Though it hadn't been for the first time, not by any means.

“Oh, he already knows, that grumpy old puss!” Marsha pouted. “He doesn't share my passion.”

“If he's a grumpy old puss six days
before
the wedding, one shudders to think what he'll be like six years
after
it?” They all laughed again, for some reason. “And, anyway, if he
is
grumpy I'm sure it's only nerves.”

“Yes, yes, you're right. Oh, my, is that the time? Well, I must fly. I only meant to stay a minute. And perhaps I oughtn't to be speaking so much about merry widows or gay divorcées—perhaps it's tempting providence. But if ever I am a gay divorcée I do pray Fred will be there waiting for me!” She arranged her veil before the mirror.

“I never,” said Erica, “never knew anyone who talked so fast and so vivaciously as you—not when you're talking about films or shows or somebody like Fred Astaire.”

“I must grow up,” said Marsha, very slowly, and pausing in her flight towards Dan at the door. “I am very soon about to be a wife and a mother.”

And then this sudden dignity was shattered when she clapped her hand to her mouth and giggled again and said, “Oh, no, I didn't mean—”

Erica said, “Well, don't grow up too quickly; you're very charming as you are,” and Marsha darted back to plant a grateful kiss upon her sister-in-law's cheek.

It was such a pity, she thought, that she couldn't feel quite the same about her
other
sister-in-law. Then they could all have linked arms and sung ‘Three little maids from school are we' in a very jolly and high-stepping and united trio. (Except that Erica was tone-deaf and Daisy couldn't stand her—and Erica couldn't stand Daisy—which somehow reduced the possibilities. It was such a shame. Never having had sisters of her own Marsha hadn't foreseen that sisters-in-law could be anything but a sheer delight, a sort of extension of one's schooldays that would go on forever; and she often felt it might be her own fault that she didn't get on better with Daisy.)

“When shall I come, then?” Daisy's voice rasped unmusically down the telephone in just the same way it rasped unmusically when
not
down the telephone. Marsha still felt surprised, even now, that distance could do so little to alleviate it. “I don't suppose you'll be wanting me for Sunday lunch?”

She added quickly: “And don't say, ‘Mmm, yes, braised!', because no matter how long you cooked me I'd remain tough!”

Marsha responded feebly. “Oh—er—yes. Sunday? This one?”

“Or arrange it for an evening if you like. I don't care. Are you free on Saturday? Yes,
this
Saturday. I hate to make plans about six years in advance. By then you might even have changed your minds about wanting to have me!” The joky laughter succeeding this remark caused Marsha to jerk away the receiver. “I'm assuming you won't object to feeding me, you see.”

“Daisy, we shall feel utterly delighted and honoured and privileged to be able to feed you!”

“My, my, that's a pretty little speech! I don't believe one word of it.”

“But I mean it.”

“Well, all the same, you mustn't put yourself out, dear, not on my account. Any old potluck will do. At home I just live on a sandwich. Now and then, that is, when I remember.”

“Oh, Daisy, you've got to eat properly!”

“No, who can be bothered? And I don't want you to bother, either. Nor your cook. Now—when am I to blight your lives forever?
Are
you free on Sunday?”

“Yes, but…”

Marsha had been thinking. If Daisy was invited to Sunday lunch she would probably stay on until bedtime. Marsha used her ingenuity.

“I've just had a brainwave! Why don't we say Saturday evening? An evening makes it more of an occasion. Otherwise it's like going to the cinema in the afternoon and coming out when it's still daylight. You feel it's a bit of an anticlimax? I know
I
do.” Though Marsha went frequently to the cinema in the afternoons.

“And I'm an occasion, am I?”

“Most definitely you are!”

The way she was handling this! Marsha thought someone should really be applauding her. (Perhaps Miss Myers, who had always been her very favourite teacher at Lausanne—such a darling!) Ten out of ten for diplomacy, old thing.

Daisy chuckled.

“Of course you're an occasion,” Marsha affirmed. “It's such a long time since we've seen one another. And Andy is simply dying to meet you! Didn't I
say
you were right at the top of our list?”

“Such a frenzy of anticipation?” enquired Daisy. “I'll tell you what, then. Hold on to your hat, dear. What's to stop me from coming to dinner on Saturday
and
staying to lunch on Sunday? Now wouldn't that make a splendid little holiday? I mean, of course, for me—not you! And I'm sure you have the room.”

She sounded so gratified at being able to present this perfect compromise, so certain she'd be giving as much pleasure as she'd be receiving, that Marsha couldn't even think of it as cheek. Daisy, she knew, would never
dream
she was imposing.

Besides, it would indeed make a little break for her.

So, faced with all of this, what could Marsha say?

Therefore she said it with as great an appearance of joy and willingness as she could muster. Miss Myers would truly have been proud of her.
Her personality is just as charming as her face!
So would Old Knick-Knacks. Even the dreaded Mrs Troop would probably have given an approving nod. Marsha felt elated by her own performance. She momentarily determined to follow the ideal of Noble Behaviour throughout the remainder of her life.

It is quite impossible not to be enchanted by her!

Daisy thanked her very suitably (there! a further rebuke for any want of charity at the beginning) and told her she was one in a million but that she definitely mustn't go to all the trouble and expense of putting fresh flowers in her bedroom. She asked if she should bring her own hot-water bottle.

Then she rang off; having provided an assurance, unsolicited, that she would present herself on the Saturday: unsinkable, sunny side up, pestering the living daylights out of them. At four o'clock, she said, in time for tea.

12

Despite her black dress at his wedding Andrew couldn't remember her. He could remember very little of his own wedding, in fact. Marsha had once said, “Oh, wouldn't it be lovely if we could go through all of it a second time, feeling blissfully relaxed?” “Heaven forbid,” he had answered. Wholly deadpan, as usual. “What a card!” she'd informed all her friends, anxiously.

Even not remembering her, even not remembering much of what he'd heard of her (his attention was inclined to wander if the conversation wasn't to do with business or racing or politics) he was appalled by the news which Marsha tried to break to him extremely gently when he came home from work that evening. At first, yes, she desperately attempted gentleness. Yet he was so disgusted by the mere fact of Daisy's dining with them on Saturday that Marsha thought it better to hurry the news of her breakfasting with them on Sunday; in addition, of course, to her lunching with them a little later in the day. Extremely gentle, then, it wasn't; but it was quick and clean and even merciful. She mentioned neither the certainty of afternoon tea on Saturday nor the strong probability of afternoon tea on Sunday.

Not that, by this time, either of these points would have made much difference.

“You'll simply have to phone her back. Right now. This minute. Tell her that you've made a mistake.”

“Oh, Andy, I couldn't. What would I say?”

“Tell her you'd forgotten we were going out. Or going away. No. Tell her you'd forgotten we were moving.”

But the awful thing was: that it didn't
sound
like a joke.

Nevertheless she laughed. He must be recovering. This time he wasn't going to sulk.

“Well, I'll tell you one thing,” he said. “If
she
comes—I go.”

“Temporarily or permanently?”

“No, I'm perfectly serious. We don't need to have her for the whole damned weekend.”

She didn't say anything.

“At least you must put her off for Sunday.”

“I can't. I won't. She seemed so pleased. Oh, I've just remembered, Andy. I've got you a little present. I'll run and fetch it!”

It was a small peace offering which she'd prepared in advance. Indeed, she'd rushed out to get it almost as soon as she had finished speaking to Daisy. She had taken it into the kitchen to give it a wash but had then forgotten all about it. She returned to the drawing room now, ceremoniously carrying a teaplate before her.

“What—a peach?” he asked, as though it were something he had never seen till now.

“Not just a common-and-garden peach,” she said—proudly—knowing how very fond he was even of those. “
This
is an English peach. I went off to the West End for it, especially.
And
there's another in the pantry—but it looked more delicate, just bringing in the one. But both of them are for you,” she added hopefully, when he merely gazed at the extended plate and said nothing. “I'm told they have the most incredible flavour.”

“My God, how much did it cost?”

“I got them cheap,” she lied. “It was a bargain.” She still held out the teaplate. “Taste it,” she said. “Or will it spoil your dinner? No, because then I'll get your sherry and that should give you back your appetite. Oh—but would you like a fruit knife? How stupid of me to forget!”

“How much was it?”

“I'm not going to tell you and it's extremely rude to ask. Here, take just one tiny bite. Use your fingers. Then maybe I'll take a tiny bite as well—that is, if you should feel like offering it—but you must certainly have the first. And don't forget: there's a second peach awaiting you in the larder.”

“No, no,” he said. “I'm not going to eat them both. What do you take me for? But at that price we're certainly going to eat them properly—for dessert—and at the table using a knife and fork. This way, in any case, without even a napkin I'd be bound to drip the juice.” And, almost involuntarily, he looked down at his black morning coat and striped trousers; it was as if he saw the stain.

“Whatever you say,” she answered.