Sarah, giving Hugh a second cup of truly terrible coffee, said, ‘That’s how it always is. His mind has no staying power. It’s… like clouds passing over the sun.’
Hugh then talked about the estate but, as always, Sarah insisted nothing could be done while her grandfather lived. ‘We’ll just have to go on as we are. At least we shall have a roof over our heads as I’ve recently had some work done on it. Once the roof goes, you’re sunk. But it was a frantic expense and sometimes I think I ought just to let the house fall down. It is kind of you to take an interest.’
He had seen her again on the Sunday afternoon when, again, they had walked Penny. Then he’d sat with Penny while Sarah had exercised the spaniels. Penny was safely housed in a dilapidated room that had been a nursery, sunny but melancholy. He found himself thinking of his childhood, and Bonnie – and, of course, Corinna. He decided to return to London that evening as it seemed likely she would come back from her weekend, to be ready for her Monday classes. They could have a real talk.
But she didn’t return on Sunday. And on Monday it was nearly midnight when she came back to the flat. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist telling her all his excitements – about Penny lost and found, Sarah, the old man…
Corinna, of course, listened, and put in various comments, such as, ‘That ghastly Mildred.’ ‘Poor darling Penny!’ ‘How very kind of Sarah!’ but he gradually realised he had a polite, rather than an eager listener – indeed, he doubted if she took in his description of Mildred at dawn. Well, she was obviously tired. And no doubt he was being madly egotistical, doing all the talking. True, he’d begun by asking about her weekend but when she’d answered, vaguely, ‘Oh, it was all right,’ he hadn’t pressed for details. Now he asked again and prepared to show real interest but she only said, ‘It was a bit dull, really. Lots of people – tennis and whatnot. Lady Tremayne’s very nice. Darling, I must go to bed.’
He had seen little of her during the week. Night after night she had come home late, owing to her half-term performances. He hadn’t been invited to any more of these – she said she wasn’t playing anything worth his seeing. He’d found it depressing, getting and eating his evening meal alone. But however late she came in, and over their rushed breakfasts, she was always pleasant. It was just that she seemed preoccupied, and unwilling to talk. Oh, perhaps it was simply that she’d been overworking; her father had said she looked tired. Anyway, the weekend was ahead of them – and, comfortable thought, Penny would soon be home. He’d had a postcard from Sarah that morning saying, ‘Penny flourishing and can come out of purdah now. Come and collect her any time. Now that my grandfather knows you it’ll be all right to come in and shout for someone.’
His train of thought was interrupted by ticket inspection. Then he put the evening paper down and his uncle began to talk about business matters. The firm was busy and George was thankful to find how much he could delegate to Hugh. It never ceased to surprise him that Robert’s son should have a flair for business.
As often, it was hot on the train and they were all thankful when they arrived and found the platform, as usual, windy. They had cooled off considerably even before they got to the car. George, on the drive home, said, ‘Wonderful how quickly one unwinds once one gets to the country.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hugh, but he didn’t today feel unwound; Corinna was still so unforthcoming. But it was pleasant to arrive at the Dower House, smell one of his Aunt May’s good dinners cooking, think of having Penny back (perhaps he and Corinna would call for her that evening) and know that – glory be to God – Mildew would soon be gone.
Corinna said she must have a cool bath before dinner. Hugh, who had hoped for a little time with her, went to see his parents. George went to find May, as he always did on his return home, unless she came to meet him.
She was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She said, ‘Sorry, darling. I couldn’t leave this.’
‘No Matsons here?’
‘Only the official one. She’s turning down the beds. Isn’t it bliss about Mildred? And she’s going by a very early train. Do you want to give her champagne as it’s her last evening?’
‘I do not,’ said George. ‘When I gave it her on her first evening she said she’d never really cared for fizzy drinks.’
‘Pity. I rather fancied celebrating – though it’s hardly safe to, until she’s actually gone. She could still burn the house down or something.’
‘You and your “indescribable horror” of her – remember? The poor hag hasn’t really done any harm.’
‘She did her best to, over Penny. I shall have to stay with this sauce for a few minutes, darling.’
Mrs Matson returned. George, after enquiring about her mother-in-law and her daughter (Mrs Matson, senior, was feeling the heat; Miss Matson had gone pillion riding – ‘You know these girls’) went to wash. He then joined Fran, who was in a deckchair on the lawn outside the Long Room. She said, ‘The lilac’s a bit sad now, isn’t it? I wish I’d looked at it more while it was at its best. You do know Mildred’s going tomorrow?’
‘I do indeed. And judging by the general relief, one feels the end of the world’s been narrowly avoided.’
‘Well, I have been a bit nervous. You see, I feel responsible, as I fished so hard for her invitation. And she really has got everyone down. The sad thing is that she doesn’t mean to. It’s just that she never gives a thought to anyone but herself. And now I feel ashamed because I’ve let myself gang up with the others. We’re always getting together and saying things like, “Have you heard Mildred’s latest?” “Have you seen Mildred’s latest?”’
‘Personally, I get a kick out of seeing her latest. What’s she treating us to dinner?’
‘Her pink frills and pantalettes. You’ve seen that outfit.’
‘Disappointing. I hoped she’d still got something up her sleeve – say, Little Lord Fauntleroy or Lady Godiva.’
Mildred, frilled and pantaletted, tripped out on to the lawn. George beamed on her kindly, then said he must go and call for Robert and June.
Dinner had a champagne quality without the champagne. Everyone was particularly nice to Mildred, even May managed a few civil remarks. And for once, Mildred seemed appreciative and spoke of missing them all when she was back in London. Fran thought, ‘If we’d tried harder to be nice, she might have been better. And tomorrow she’ll be at that deadly boarding house while we’re all enjoying ourselves here. Not that I must stay much longer.’ There was quite a lot she wanted to do in London. She spent a few minutes thinking about this and only came back into circulation when iced coffee was being served. May remembered she’d bought some coffee wafers she wanted everyone to try and went to the kitchen for them.
Mildred then complained of the westering sun and asked if someone would draw the curtains. Robert, who particularly liked watching the sun set behind the Hall, rose resignedly. As he reached the west window Mildred, following him with her eyes, said, ‘Isn’t it funny how tall and thin Robert is, when June’s short and plump? June’s one of the round people – and George is, too. You know, George, I always think you should have married June – somehow she looks right for you. But I can’t imagine Robert marrying May. Robert…’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Fran broke in sharply and then wished she hadn’t. Her tone had helped to give importance to Mildred’s words. And important they undoubtedly were. In little more than a split second Fran had taken in that George and June were looking at each other. June was blushing deeply and George… It was only later that Fran found a phrase to describe his expression. It was as if he had seen a great light.
Robert, having heard Mildred speak his name, turned from the window saying, ‘What was that, Aunt Mildred?’
‘I was saying that – oh, dear!’ She broke off with a squawk of dismay.
Baggy, reaching for the cream jug, had knocked her glass of iced coffee over towards her, deluging her lap.
Fran sprang up. ‘We must sponge
it at once or it will stain.’
If there was anything in the world Mildred cared deeply about, it was her clothes. She gave apologetic Baggy one tearful glare and then allowed herself to be hustled upstairs.
Sponging the dress, Fran wondered if Baggy had knocked the coffee-glass over on purpose. It wasn’t like him to be quick-witted but neither was it like him to want more cream. Anyway, God bless him.
‘You’re making me very wet,’ wailed Mildred.
‘Well, take the dress off and put on your dressing gown.’
May couldn’t have heard, from the kitchen; the swing door always closed itself. And Robert had been drawing the curtains. Anyway, Mildred’s idiotic words didn’t much matter. It was June’s blush and, even more, George’s expression – it was then that the phrase ‘as if he’d seen a great light’ dropped into Fran’s mind. Oh, perhaps she was exaggerating… but she was quite sure she wasn’t.
‘I shan’t go down again,’ said Mildred. ‘I’ve got to finish packing.’
‘It looks as if you’d barely begun,’ said Fran, gazing round the untidy room.
‘Well, I don’t like packing. Usually someone helps me.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Fran. The helping proved to be doing the whole job, while Mildred issued commands. Fran made a bet with herself that she’d keep her temper and this wasn’t too difficult as she found Mildred’s absurdly unsuitable pretty clothes both pathetic and nostalgic. Even as a tiny, exquisite child Mildred had adored her clothes.
‘Well, that’s all we can do tonight,’ said Mildred at last. ‘But you’ll help me in the morning?
‘I will indeed.’ Fran visualised the glorious moment when that frightful trunk would be carried down the stairs.
‘And now I shall go to bed. I must be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘I expect you’re looking forward to your newly decorated room and to seeing all your friends again.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve lots to look forward to,’ said Mildred. At the moment she was looking forward to a bedtime instalment of her latest Hugh and Sarah daydream. Corinna would come into it tonight. Corinna would be jealous. And serve her right; she’d been most offhand before dinner.
Fran, returning to the Long Room, found Baggy alone, reading an evening paper. She enquired where everyone was.
‘Corinna’s in her room studying a part. Hugh’s gone to call for his dog. May’s doing something somewhere. The others have gone to the cottage for some serial on television. They could have seen it here but George said he knew I like to see the news. And very dull it was. Did I ruin Mildred’s dress?’
‘Oh, it’ll be all right,’ said Fran. Had he knocked the coffee over on purpose? She didn’t dare to ask him in case he hadn’t, hadn’t even noticed anything. Mustn’t risk putting ideas into his head. A pity. She’d have been thankful to talk it all over with him.
Baggy happened to be in the same position. He’d have welcomed praise for knocking the coffee over. Never in his life had he done such swift thinking followed by such decisive action. And he’d have liked to tell her how quickly George and June had recovered themselves. By the time Robert was back at the table and May had returned with the coffee wafers (rather good, they were) there had been nothing to see. But Fran might not have noticed anything. Mustn’t risk putting ideas into her head.
Fran went to the television, which was on without sound, and twiddled for a programme they could enjoy. She found one about a young couple who were converting a flat. Baggy thought they were paying too much rent, Fran thought it was going to be uncomfortable. No flat ever seemed as comfortable as her own. She remembered that she’d promised herself a speedy return to it but now… She couldn’t leave until she felt more at ease about George and June.
She would have been relieved could she have seen how normal and relaxed they – and Robert, too – appeared to be, watching television in the tiny cottage sitting room. They had enjoyed their cliff-hanger serial, in spite of the fact that their combined brains had failed to unravel the intricacies of its plot, and were placidly watching the programme Fran and Baggy were watching. But soon Robert remembered he had some notes to make and went up to his study. George took his place on the sofa, beside June, and after a moment put his arm around her.
June wondered if she ought to tell him not to, but didn’t. She was quite sure she ought not to put her head on his shoulder, but did.
George said, ‘Darling June.’
June said, ‘Darling George.’
George said, ‘Was it as much of a surprise to you as it was to me?’
‘You mean, what Aunt Mildred said?’
‘I mean, what you felt.’
‘Oh, that wasn’t a surprise,’ said June. ‘You see, I’ve always felt it.’
‘Good God! Surely not always?’
‘Absolutely always,’ said June cheerfully. ‘From the very first evening I met you. But of course it doesn’t mean anything. I love Robert just as you love May. It was just… well, you’re like Rudolph Valentino.’
‘I’m what? I saw him in an old movie and he was ghastly. June, you don’t really mean…’
‘Oh, I don’t mean you’re like him that way. I think he was ghastly too. It’s just that, for me, you’re like he was for Mother. Exciting to think about but not in the least important.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said George.
‘What?’ said June, through a blare of television sound. George got up and turned the sound down.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said June. ‘I shouldn’t like Robert to come back and find us sitting here in dark silence.’
‘Robert would never dream of thinking… And if we keep the sound up, we shall have to shout.’
‘Well, you can turn the sound off if you turn the lights on. Then it’ll seem quite natural that we’re sitting here talking.’
‘I don’t want the lights on,’ said George, who found the room, lit only by television, exactly right for his mood. He went to the door, opened it, listened, then closed it again. ‘Now stop fussing. Robert’s typing away like a beaver. He won’t be down for ages. Just a second, while I draw the curtains.’
‘But we never draw them. What will Hugh think, when he comes back, if he finds them drawn?’
George, drawing them, said, ‘He’ll think far worse if he finds them undrawn and happens to look in.’
‘But why?’
‘Because this discussion has reached a stage where I have to kiss you.’
With great strength of mind June sprang up from the sofa and moved to a small chair which had hard, discouraging arms. For a few seconds she felt it was sinking under her or was she sinking through it? Then she and it came to terms with each other, also the room steadied itself. And she was able to speak firmly, though the firmness was more in the intention than in her voice.
She said, ‘George, if you have any real affection for me, any true liking – and surely you must have, after all these years – I implore you to sit still and think. Please, George. Just for a few minutes.’
George gave her a loving smile and said, ‘All right. I’ll do just that.’ It was, he decided, a very good idea indeed.
At the dinner table he had been in no doubt about the nature of the great light he had seen (he would have approved of Fran’s phrase) as the result of Mildred’s unpardonable remark. (Actually he had not only pardoned her but was even feeling grateful to her.) He hadn’t instantly known he ought to have married June; he hadn’t fallen in love with her or even felt violently attracted to her. He had simply known, without any shadow of doubt, why he had been so happy since the move to the country, why everything had felt ‘right’. Of course! It was the presence of June. Dear June, not short and plump as Mildred had most libellously described her, but certainly round… and above all, right.
That had been enough for him at dinner. He hadn’t looked ahead to possible delights or difficulties or both. He had simply felt ‘So that’s that. Dear, darling June. And, oh you poor love, how you
’re blushing. Never mind. May’s out of the room, Robert has his back to you. And there’s nothing, nothing to worry about.’ Well, if he’d really felt that, he must have automatically decided that this particular case of ‘rightness’ couldn’t be allowed to develop in the way most similar cases had. Of course not. Even if June were willing, he couldn’t allow himself to come between her and Robert or between her and May. Nor, in this particular case, could he allow himself so to hurt May.
Yes, indeed. Even though not consciously worked out, those must have been his underlying thoughts. But now, sitting in the small, dimly lit room, staring unseeingly at the silent television screen, he realised that just a few minutes alone with June had altered the situation. This was largely because he now intuitively knew what she felt about him. He was good at knowing what women felt about him; indeed, the main reason of his success with them was that he seldom showed an interest until he knew he had aroused one. (Perhaps it was only then that he felt the interest. He was no hunter; what attracted him most was mutuality of attraction.) And he knew now that, though darling June would verbally say ‘No, no, no’ she would physically say ‘Yes, yes, yes’ sooner or later.
He sneaked a look at her. She was sitting with her eyes closed in a certain way… really, one could only describe it as swooning. Those eyelids were already saying ‘Yes, yes, yes’.
On which he suddenly felt, of all the unlikely things, fatherly. Poor love, this kind of thing was outside her experience. She must be protected. And he could do it. Quite a few times he had denied himself delightful women, and for less potent reasons than applied to June. Business reasons, even… husbands who were extra suspicious… wives who were not discreet… women he suspected of being clingers. Now he came to think of it, he had switched off his interest in Sarah, though it was that interest which had clinched his decision to take the Dower House, on a soaking wet day. Of course he could protect June. He was in control.