When I Was Otherwise (9 page)

“Well, anyhow, thank you. I'm not saying it wasn't extravagant, yet it was also thoughtful. But hadn't you anything better to do with your time?”

“No.
Pas une chose
. I'll go and pour our sherry.”

“It might be a good idea if after dinner we began drawing up a list of things you could be getting on with.”

“Oh, yes. I'd like that. It sounds like fun.”

He wasn't sure if this showed quite the correct attitude but that was something which could keep. For the moment he looked back at the plate which he'd finally accepted from her.

He smiled, a little tightly.

“I am still not going to have that woman inflicted upon us for the whole weekend.”

“That woman is Henry's wife. Widow. She's your sister-in-law.”

“No, she isn't. She's yours.”

“And yours.” Though she wasn't sure of that. “Please, darling. I think we do owe it to her.”

Then, impulsively—or perhaps not
quite
impulsively—she went down on her knees beside his chair and started to run her fingers along his thigh. “Please, pretty please,” she repeated, wheedlingly. “And if you're a very good boy I'll tell you what I'll do…”

“For heaven's sake! Not here! Mary might come in.”

“Not
that
, you silly! Or that as well, if you like! But I was going to say I'd sing to you. ‘If you were the only boy in the world and I were the only girl'. Our song.”

“I don't want you to sing to me. And do get up!” he said. He glanced nervously at the door.

She ran her fingers along his leg again.

“Before I do,” she said wickedly, that mischievous twinkle in her eye that all her chums at Hillcrest had grown to take delight in, “before I do…may Daisy come and stay with us, Andy? May she? I've got such itchy fingers! What do you say, darling? This coming weekend? Yes? Yes? May she?”

13

It was not the most auspicious of beginnings, especially when Andrew had said in bed that night—although he hadn't, thank goodness, been repeating his master-and-slave strategy of the night before, fun on occasions, yes, but tiresome if employed too often—“Well, anyway. Just so long as she doesn't
talk
! If she's like some of your friends…the two of you together…gab, gab, gab…”

“I'll give her a notepad and pencil as soon as she steps inside the doorway,” Marsha had promised.

“
Does
she talk?”

“Well, don't forget she's only very recently suffered a bereavement.” She was implying that Daisy might be lonely and for this reason and this reason only might feel a certain compulsion to communicate.

“But is she one of those silly twittering females like you grew up at school with?”

In the darkness Marsha pouted—as she guided his hand towards her breast. “You always used to say that you
preferred
silly females.”

“Never.”

“Yes, you did. You said you were glad I wasn't brainy. You said you didn't care for brainy types.”

“Oh, that. I only meant I was glad I wasn't marrying a bluestocking.”

“Because, you mean, you wouldn't be able to impress her with all your cleverness the way that I'm impressed?”

“Are you impressed?”

“I'm not saying. I might be. Perhaps.”

“Then tell me what impresses you. Does
this
impress you?”

She was surprised: it seemed a little out of character: but she felt pleased as well, really pleased. She giggled. For, at the very least, it meant that she had won. It gave her a feeling of power.

And Daisy did talk. Bereavement or no bereavement Daisy talked…and talked. Yet she wasn't silly. She didn't twitter. And she wasn't a bluestocking. Marsha began to hope that, despite a ten-past-three arrival, total disaster might somehow be averted. The splendid thing about Daisy was that she could always give just as good as she got; and after a time Marsha sat back admiringly and with a great deal of relief. She even thought she might be learning something.

“I'm so sorry,” Andrew had said after they had shaken hands. “We've actually finished our lunch. But if you'd only let us know we could have held some back.”

“Why, what did you have?”

“Cold meat and potatoes and peas followed by apple tart and custard.”

“Well, that's all right, then. They're not my favourites. It wouldn't have been worth it.” She chuckled and sat down in the chair he'd just vacated. “Besides, I shall eat a larger tea in order to make up.”

And she looked at him to see what he might have to say in reply to
that
. For the moment, however, all he could think of was to mutter something about its no doubt being extremely nice, but he had brought home a lot of work from the office, and therefore if she would be so very good as to excuse him for the time being…?

“No, no,” said Daisy, “I shall not be so very good—not at all. Sit down. I've hardly spoken to you yet. I've had no chance to test your mettle. Do you know, I heard a funny story about you? I heard that you were shy! Somebody actually told me you were shy!”

“Who told you that?”

“And do you know another thing? I suppose the two of us are in a way related—no matter how much we may deplore the fact to our families or try to conceal it from the world at large. So that's a second reason why you shouldn't leave the room the second I enter it. I shall be forced to assume it's simply because you haven't got the guts to stay. Who cares about politeness? It's guts that interest me.”

He sat down then, not only with a show of some reluctance but with a manner of looking for a chair which might have suggested to someone less thick-skinned that his own had just been taken. He further asserted his independence by refusing to be drawn too quickly into conversation.

“I must say, Daisy, you're looking very well,” observed Marsha, for the second time.

“Oh, my looks have never pitied me!” declared their visitor. “And why should they indeed? It's usually other people who have pitied me my looks!”

Marsha laughed.

“That was my little joke, you know,” said Daisy; she addressed this in a confidential tone to Andrew. “It isn't that I actually mind your not laughing—it's certainly a free world. It's just that I don't want you to go round remarking to your friends, ‘That poor woman! Everyone pities her her looks! You can definitely see why!' I take it you might possibly have a few friends?”

“One or two,” he replied.

“And, my word, I bet you gabble when you get together!” She turned back to Marsha. “Talking about my face, though—if you can bear it—will you tell me something honestly? Do you think I might look better if I wore makeup?”

“Have you never worn it?”

“No. Never. I used to think it was the muckiest stuff on record. Still do in a way. But recently I've been wondering. I'm in danger of being converted!”

“Well, why don't you experiment a little? Wouldn't that be the thing to do?”

“Oh—I don't know—can I really be bothered? Though I daresay you're right, of course.”

“If you like—a little later—I'll take you upstairs to my dressing table and we could try out one or two effects.”

“Now that seems like a bit of inspiration! With a cup of tea to fortify us! Though soon we might be wishing it had been something a good deal stronger! I rather hope not.”

“Oh, I think it sounds like fun!” said Marsha, meaning it. She enjoyed messing about with cosmetics—she always felt she might have been a beautician, or a hairdresser, next to being an actress—and this was exactly the sort of jolly occupation she had often imagined sisters going in for, although she had never yet done so with Erica. She stood up. “I'll just go and see, then, if Mary needs a hand with the tea?”

“Yes, hurry it up a bit,” advised Daisy. “What another very good idea! Marriage obviously agrees with you. Can't say I see why, though,” she added conversationally, as soon as Marsha had left the room.

“Would I be right in assuming that's just another little joke?” He asked it with a touch of asperity. Maybe more than a touch.

“Well, what I invariably say is, if the cap fits wear it! Does marriage agree with
you
, my friend?” She had lit a cigarette.

“Are you always this outspoken, Daisy?”

“I don't like to deal merely in small talk if that's what you mean. I don't find it interesting and it teaches you nothing. I like to get to
know
about people. I'm not sure if I've answered your question.”

“Snap,” he retorted drily.

“Tell me something, though. Outspoken or not.” Daisy leaned forward conspiratorially. “How do you get on with your mother-in-law?”

“I don't,” said Andrew succinctly, but then amended this with automatic caution, “Of course, I can't really say whose fault that is.”

Daisy had never much believed in caution and in her case, certainly, it was
never
automatic. “Isn't she an utter pain?” she enquired, with a chuckle. “Isn't she vile? I don't get on with her either—and I can state loudly and clearly whose fault that is. Indeed, I often do. And I hope I may long continue in the practice. My word, I do believe you're smiling. Is it some trick of the light?”

“Do you know, Daisy, I've never heard anyone else say a single unpleasant word about Florence?”

“She dabbles in hypnosis.”

“And I've got to admit that it's almost a relief.”

“Yes, naturally you have.”

“Why? Do you dabble in hypnosis too?”

“You've got a nice smile. You should use it more often. Oh, now, don't clam up on me again! Just when I've discovered how almost handsome you can be!”

Marsha came back into the room. She would soon be followed by the tea.

“Has he been entertaining you, Daisy?”

“Brilliantly. We've been getting on like a house on fire. Haven't we?”

“If you say so.”

Marsha was impressed. “I should tell you, Daisy, that sounds like fulsome praise, coming from my Andy. He'd be more than capable of saying, ‘Well,
I
didn't notice.' What people fail to realize about this husband of mine”—Marsha went behind his chair and put her arms around his neck—“is that at heart he's very droll.” She bent and laid her own cheek next to his. “He's a card, an absolute card.”

Daisy saw Andrew's expression while Marsha was doing this. She didn't quite understand it because she thought any man would delight in having a pretty woman, even if not a particularly bright one, show adoration of this kind—as any woman, presumably, would delight in having a handsome man do the same thing. But still, she imagined, he might be one of those rare creatures who actually looked beneath the surface, remembered that beauty was only skin-deep and that real treasure was often hidden below ground. So she nodded at him, sympathetically.

Marsha, seeing this nod, interpreted it as the smiling indulgence which she knew all the world extended towards young lovers. Though she was faintly surprised to find Daisy joining in.

It made her feel slightly ashamed again, just as she had felt three days earlier, on the telephone.

Daisy was incredibly brave. And kind. And misjudged. Once more Marsha became aware of the way she herself had misjudged her. Egged on by Erica, maybe, but that was no excuse.

She suddenly wanted to share things.

“Shall we tell her, Andy?”

“Tell her what?”

“Tell her what, indeed! How like a man! Merely that this clever young fellow and I… Well, would you believe it, Daisy? It was confirmed to us only last Monday. We're going to have a baby!”

14

Another thing about Daisy's visit which staved off disaster was Andrew's discovery, during tea, that she played chess.

“
What
!” she exclaimed. “I was brought up on it! Check and checkmate were probably my first and second words!”

Her love of the game was manifest; and drew a strong reaction. “Then it's conceivable you could be the most civilized person to have entered this house in the whole of the past six months.”

“Oh, spoken like a true gentleman!
And
a very wise one!”

“But, darling, don't forget my mother,” laughed Marsha. “And yours as well! Not to mention Erica and Dan and a good many others. Colonel and Mrs Quinn! Evelyn and John! I think you'd better be a little more careful in what you say!”

Andrew glanced at Daisy and Daisy's mouth began to twitch. He quickly looked away and said to his wife, “I tried to teach you once, didn't I? It was absolutely hopeless!”

“I just couldn't get the hang of it,” agreed Marsha with happy modesty.

“Yes, I know,” said Daisy. “It was exactly like that at home. My father was an inveterate chess player. My mother couldn't understand the simplest moves.”

But something about her manner kept them from replying.

“Or
wouldn't
, more like! Because it was all done out of spite, naturally. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of outdoing her.”

She glared at them.

“And yet couldn't she see? He outdid her in every possible way: in intellect, breeding, plain graciousness of heart. Oh, she was so
petty
! She said he bored her; that little things pleased little minds; that he didn't have any drive or any backbone.”

She shrugged.

“Well, it was certainly true, that last bit—he didn't. Otherwise, how could he have gone on standing for the way she ran that household, with all her cheap denigrations and joyless assumptions? But far from trying to build up what little backbone he had, she tore it out and laid it on a butcher's block and chortled whilst she used the axe.”

Daisy gave a bitter laugh: perhaps not so dissimilar to her mother's in the throes of dissecting vertebrae.