Dubious Legacy

  ‘Is Barbara coming?’ asked John, as they set to to pull the carrots. ‘And James?’

  ‘I heard Pilar say James is sailing this weekend, so she may come alone.’

  ‘That’s no way to match up with Antonia,’ said John thoughtfully.

  ‘Does she want to?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘They have always run in tandem, it would be funny if she didn’t. I was a bit surprised she let Antonia produce first,’ said John. ‘Not that I enjoy watching the process. Although the end result is OK if one goes by tiny Susie.’

  ‘Barbara’s effort will also be dumped on Pilar. Those girls take advantage,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Pilar doesn’t mind; they are a change from Margaret.’

  ‘At least Margaret remains barren,’ snorted Jonathan. ‘And fair do’s, they pay rent, which helps Henry keep, the house going; no use hankering after old times.’

  ‘These new times, though—sometimes you’d think the whole place belonged to that lot,’ grumbled John.

  ‘Well, at least they won’t get these carrots,’ said his lover amiably. ‘And if Barbara starts off with a boy, Antonia’s nose will be twisted.’

  ‘We’d better give a bunch to Pilar for Margaret,’ said Jonathan as they ambled towards their car. ‘She refused to eat them last season, so she may like them this. What do you think?’

  ‘She threw the vegetable dish at Hector and Lysander, according to Pilar; they gobbled them up off the carpet,’ said John. ‘All right, it’s worth a try, but make it a small bunch, darling.’

  ‘Is Henry delivering the new potatoes?’ questioned Jonathan. ‘If he is, it’s very good of him.’

  ‘A consignment for Barbara and James—James doesn’t want his new car sullied by sacks of pots. Matthew and Antonia are not so precious,’ said John.

  ‘Matthew and Antonia have not got a new car, my dear.’

  ‘And why,’ said John, ‘is it so good of Henry to ferry a bag of potatoes for us, if I may make so bold as to ask?’

  ‘It wastes time which might be better occupied,’ answered the older man. ‘He doesn’t often get away from the farm.’

  ‘And how, one wonders, does Henry occupy his time? I believe you would like him to be trolling round the sleazy joints of Soho.’

  Jonathan laughed. ‘I would like to think he was lunching with a pretty woman and doing what comes naturally afterwards. But you know, and I know, he visits his bank and his solicitor, has his hair cut, buys Margaret an expensive present he can’t afford, browses among the new books at Hatchards and, if he feels peckish, has a sandwich in a pub.’

  ‘Right,’ said the younger man. ‘And the odds are that Margaret chucks the expensive present out of the window.’

  ‘Let’s face it, my dear,’ said the older man, as he climbed into the driving seat. ‘Henry leads a pretty boring life.’

  ‘And who is responsible for that?’ niggled the younger man, expecting no answer and receiving none.

  Henry drove west towards Chelsea to deliver James and Barbara’s sack of new potatoes. He had visited his bank and his solicitor, and had his hair cut at Penhaligon’s. From Fortnum & Mason he had bought Margaret a present, the cost of which had made him linger less than usual in Hatchards.

  James and Barbara’s small, steep house was in that part of Chelsea equidistant from the Brompton and King’s Roads; it faced north but had a garden at the back which was sunny. Here, in their first flush of marriage, James had planted a wisteria and Barbara a vine.

  Henry’s brakes squealed as he drew up. He humped the potatoes down the area steps and rang the bell. Anybody passing could help themselves to the potatoes, he thought, as nobody answered. Perhaps the cleaning lady was operating the Hoover; he would try the front door. Idly he pressed the bell with his thumb. The door flew open. Barbara stood in the half-dark of a narrow hall. She said, ‘Oh!’ and, backing away, tried to shut the door.

  Henry put his foot in the jamb. ‘I brought the spuds you wanted from the Jonathans.’

  Barbara said hoarsely, ‘Oh, thanks, Henry. Could you move your foot?’

  Henry said, ‘No,’ and pushed the door.

  Barbara pushed back.

  Henry said, ‘What’s the matter, Barbara?’ and pushed harder.

  Barbara said, ‘I was washing my hair.’

  Pushing the door open, Henry said, ‘So I see,’ and walked in, closing the door behind him.

  Barbara had a towel wrapped round her head, but under it her face was white with greyish blotches and her nose and eyes were puffed and swollen.

  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 sparrow
s. 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.

  TWENTY

  ON 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.’ r />
  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—’