James said, ‘Nothing, Barbara, nothing.’
She said, ‘So you love me?’
James said, ‘Of course I do.’
‘Desperately?’
James said, ‘That word would apply,’ and kissed the top of her head.
Barbara said, ‘Our marriage will not be like Henry’s.’
James said, ‘I should damn well hope not. What did you think of her—Margaret?’
‘Strange.’ Barbara laughed uneasily. ‘Very odd. She told us that Henry pestered her and pestered her to marry him, he would not take No. Would you have taken No?’
James said, ‘Of course not.’
‘I am not convinced,’ Barbara wheedled.
‘Then be convinced. I am,’ James said, lying. ‘Totally,’ he said, compounding his untruth.
‘To spend your life in bed! It is peculiar. Does she never get up? I am thinking of Margaret,’ said Barbara.
‘She must, if only to go to the loo or have a bath.’ They giggled, leaning against the haycock and each other.
‘Hullo, you two.’ Henry reappeared from behind them, walking softly. One of his dogs panted in Barbara’s face and tried to lick her. Pushing the dog away, Barbara said, ‘Get off, you smell,’ and, ‘Oh Henry, hullo. We are going to get married; James would not take No.’
Henry said, ‘Felicitations. I hope you will be very happy. May I join you or would you rather be alone?’
Barbara said, ‘Of course, sit with us. It’s lovely here in the sweet-smelling hay by the light of the moon. We have the rest of our lives to be alone.’
As Henry lowered himself to sit with them, James thought bitterly of Valerie and wished her dead, but since he was essentially a kind man he immediately rescinded this wish. Taking Barbara’s hand, he kissed her palm and folded her fingers over it. ‘Barbara—’
Barbara said, ‘M-m-m, that’s nice, who taught you to do that?’ and when James failed to answer she turned to Henry. ‘Did you propose to Margaret by moonlight?’
Henry said, ‘No. It was in Egypt.’
‘But the same moon—’
‘So?’
‘The moon is even larger in Egypt, I’ve read. Did you ask—’
‘In a bar, I think. Yes, it was in a bar.’
‘Often?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, how often did you propose? James asked me several times.’
‘Just the once,’ Henry answered shortly.
Barbara said, ‘Oh,’ and after a pause, ‘Did you have a wonderful wedding?’
‘A civil ceremony.’
‘Don’t let her bother you,’ said James.
‘Pester was the word Margaret used,’ said Barbara. ‘She said you absolutely pestered her to marry you.’
Henry said, ‘I think I’ll go in. My arse is getting damp and I have a lot to do tomorrow.’ He jumped upright from his sitting position and, when Barbara held up her hand to him, pulled her to her feet and smacked her bottom. ‘That’s for nosiness.’
James, younger but less spry, scrambling to his feet felt excluded. To rectify this feeling he put his arm around Barbara as they walked back to the house. There they found Matthew and Antonia on the terrace, arms entwined. Antonia called out as they crossed the lawn, ‘I allowed Matthew to talk me into marriage under a lilac bush. I shall for ever associate its intoxicating scent with—’
‘Happiness?’ suggested Henry. Then, ‘Well now, isn’t that nice? Two future tangles. This merits a bottle of champagne,’ and he went away into the house to fetch it.
Antonia murmured, or it might have been Barbara, or again in later years, when memories played false, one or other thought Matthew or James had remarked, ‘Some people’s idea of wit is a trifle warped.’ What they all remembered was the harsh screech of the cockatoo perched in the vine, and Henry calling up, ‘Come down, my pretty,’ as he set the bottle and the glasses on a table. Then he stretched his arm up for the bird to sidle on to his wrist.
Antonia had asked, ‘Where did you find him?’ and Henry, stroking the bird’s yellow crest, had said, ‘Caged in a pet shop. I cannot endure the thought of imprisonment for wild creatures.’ And he had added, ‘Or for any live creature.’
Then Antonia and Barbara had exchanged a disbelieving look which was noted by the men, Henry in particular, and Henry, opening the champagne with a soft pop, had murmured as he filled the glasses, ‘You are thinking of my caged wife,’ and chuckled. The cockatoo screeched again and climbed up his arm to sit on his shoulder.
Sipping her champagne, Barbara said, ‘And is she not caged? Don’t you keep her prisoner?’
James had made as though to hush her, but Henry answered her seriously, ‘I cannot interfere with my wife’s liberty,’ and watched Barbara’s face. Then he said, ‘Shall we drink to you and James? And Antonia and Matthew? To your—er—collective liberties.’ When they had drunk the toast he had said, still amused but friendly, ‘I see you girls as the prototypes for post-war women.’
Matthew had said, ‘The war has been over for some years.’
Henry said, ‘True, but we are still finding our collective feet, don’t you agree?’ Then he said, ‘Time for bed, I think. Tomorrow will be a long day,’ and led the way into the house.
In the hall he had settled the cockatoo on its perch before bidding them good night. ‘I hope you all come again often,’ he said, ‘and when you have children that you will bring them too. This is a good place for children. Good night, all of you.’
Watching Antonia mount the stairs ahead of him, Matthew congratulated himself on a job well done, a sensible step. Beside him James suppressed a disconsolate pang, remembering the weekend he had brought Valerie, when he had shared her bed.
In the bathroom Antonia squeezed paste on to her toothbrush. ‘Antonia Stephenson,’ she said. ‘How does it sound to you?’
In the act of brushing her teeth, Barbara gargled inarticulately, rinsed and countered, ‘Barbara Martineau? I like both.’ She made room for Antonia at the basin.
Antonia brushed her teeth briskly then rinsed, rolling the water around before spitting. ‘Names matter,’ she said. ‘I feel sorry to give up Lowther but Stephenson will do, and your Martineau has a fine Huguenot ring.’
‘Tillotson,’ said Barbara.
‘What makes you say Tillotson?’ asked Antonia, startled.
Barbara picked up her hairbrush and began brushing her hair. ‘It is just that since we sat in that weird room listening to our hostess, I suppose she is our hostess, I can’t get her out of my mind.’ Barbara sat on the rim of the bath and stared at her friend. ‘I’m not a bit sleepy,’ she said. ‘Shall we discuss?’
They moved into Antonia’s room. Barbara sat on the end of the bed while Antonia got in and propped herself with pillows.
Antonia said, ‘It’s not so much her as him, Henry. Were you able to talk to James about him?’
‘We were too busy getting engaged,’ said Barbara.
Antonia said, ‘So were we.’
Barbara said, ‘Henry seemed to be there with us. He went off, leaving us alone, but when he came back it was as though he had been there all the time—’
‘In your thoughts,’ said Antonia.
‘Yes,’ said Barbara.
‘He was in mine too,’ Antonia admitted. ‘Why don’t you get in with me, it’s a double bed. You might catch a chill out there.’
Barbara said, ‘Thanks, I will,’ and joined Antonia in the bed.
Antonia said, ‘Did you tell James what she said about Henry?’
‘I told him that she told us he pestered her to marry him, and that I thought her very odd, but—’
‘Not about his being impotent?’ Antonia queried.
‘No.’
‘Not about him being homosexual?’
Barbara said, ‘No.’
‘Or only able to do it with horses? Antonia pressed her friend.
‘I was afraid James would laugh. It’s not the sort of thing I could tell
James. We were getting engaged. James would be shocked. How could Henry—with a horse?’
‘Work it out for yourself,’ said Antonia.
‘I’ve tried,’ said Barbara. ‘Did you tell Matthew?’
‘Of course not,’ said Antonia. ‘So all the time James was proposing and you were accepting you were thinking of Henry Tillotson?’
‘Not all the time, of course not, but just a bit. You said you were thinking of him too.’
‘Well,’ said Antonia, ‘how could one not?’ and she pushed a propping pillow aside and stretched her legs down the bed.
Barbara, taking the hint, got out of bed. ‘But you do love Matthew?’ she asked as she moved towards her own room.
‘Of course,’ said Antonia firmly. ‘Do you love James?’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara, ‘of course—er—desperately.’ She remembered James voicing this word in the hayfield.
‘So why are we discussing Henry?’ Antonia murmured, but not expecting an answer she called, ‘Good night.’
Barbara said, ‘Good night,’ and closed the communicating door.
SEVEN
WHEN BARBARA WOKE SHE heard sounds in the garden. It was very early. She went to the window and looked out. Her room was at the side of the house looking onto a lawn, which stretched down to a gate leading into a walled garden; craning her neck, she could see the tops of fruit trees and rows of vegetables. Flanking the lawn were clipped yew hedges and, along the hedges, borders of yellow tulips. There was activity on the lawn: Ebro and Trask were putting up trestle tables, directed by Pilar. ‘This way,’ said Pilar, and, ‘Is not straight. Is not in the middle. Yes, better so. Don’t make a noise,’ she said, gesturing up at the house. ‘The ladies a-sleeping.’
Antonia, yawning, came into her room and joined Barbara at the window. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.
‘They are getting ready for the party.’
‘Aha, here comes Henry with chairs—’
‘And attendant dogs.’
They watched Henry unstacking chairs. He spoke quietly to Pilar. ‘Leave the table-cloths till later,’ and, ‘Thank you, Trask. This table here, I think, for the buffet and that one for drinks.’
‘How many people?’
‘Lay for a dozen, some may not turn up. It doesn’t matter—‘
Barbara whispered, ‘Bones.’
‘Bones?’
‘The bones of the party, the bones of our lives.’
‘Getting engaged has made you poetic, you must keep your head Antonia teased. On the far side of the yew hedge a mistlethrush burst into song, to be answered by a rival in the distance.
‘I feel so much older,’ whispered Barbara.
‘You are a prototype; we are both prototypes, Henry said. Do you know what a prototype is?’ Antonia teased.
‘I know what a tangle is.’ Barbara watched Henry. ‘Why did he suggest tangle?’
‘Because his marriage is a tangle,’ hissed Antonia. ‘It doesn’t mean yours will be—or mine.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Barbara whispered, then, ‘Of course not,’ more robustly. ‘Listen to that bird, and the cuckoo is nearer this morning.’
‘Do you want children, Barbara?’
‘Not much.’
‘Me neither. But it’s another way to earn a living and a better way than working in a boring office. I loathe typewriters. Anyway,’ said Antonia, ‘if I can’t have a nanny, if Matthew can’t afford one, I shall have an au pair.’
‘Antonia, you think of everything.’
‘I am not going to allow myself to be blocked,’ Antonia muttered between gritted teeth. ‘My mother,’ she said, ‘gives in to my father in everything. I don’t want to be like her.’
‘No need for you to worry. Matthew isn’t masterful, like your pa.’
‘Of course he’s masterful—’ Antonia protested.
‘Not like your pa, that’s all I meant.’
‘Oh. And James?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’ The girls giggled, leaning shoulder to shoulder, elbows on the windowsill, blond hair brushing against brown as they watched the activity below.
‘The best silver,’ said Pilar. ‘I clean the chandeliers. Tall white candles.’
‘Chandeliers!’ whispered Barbara. ‘Candle-light.’
‘Don’t go overboard.’
Standing immediately below the girls’ window, Henry surveyed the scene. They heard him murmur, ‘Flowers?’
‘A beautiful setting for beautiful people,’ said Pilar, hands on hips. ‘They have the best.’
‘Beautiful girls.’ Ebro steadied a table. ‘Eh, Trask?’
Trask, who had not spoken, smiled, shrugged and walked away.
‘Hear that?’ Antonia nudged her friend. ‘We are beautiful.’
‘Here comes that exotic bird—’ Barbara pointed.
They watched the cockatoo insinuate itself through the bars of the garden gate and approach Henry with its sideways hop. Henry put his hand down, offering his wrist. ‘I think you had better be shut in tonight. Don’t nip,’ he said, as the bird clawed itself up onto his shoulder. ‘Sit tight.’
The bird put its head on one side, raising and lowering its yellow crest.
‘Matches the tulips,’ murmured Barbara.
‘He invited our children here,’ whispered Antonia. ‘Shall you—’
‘Probably—oh certainly, yes. I wish—’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Antonia glanced sharply at Barbara. I wish it too, she thought, drawing in her breath, don’t I just. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that Henry is a prototype himself.’
‘Do you?’ said Barbara. ‘Really? But what about the horses? Was she pulling our legs?’
Antonia giggled. ‘It’s not possible,’ she spluttered.
‘Are you two girls going to stay up there all morning tittering, or would you like to come for a swim or a ride before breakfast?’ Henry neither raised his voice nor did he look up.
‘Oh!’ the girls exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ and sobered, wondering what Henry had overheard.
Henry said, ‘Well?’
Looking down at Henry, Antonia said, ‘We shall have to telephone our parents and tell them about getting engaged. That is, if you don’t mind us using your telephone.’
Henry said, ‘Please do. And what will they say?’ He smiled up at them.
Antonia said, ‘My mother will say, “Oh, goodness. I must break it to your father,” and he will say, “What about your job?” and “You are awfully young, darling, for such a big decision.”’
‘And what will yours say?’ Henry asked Barbara.
‘The same tell your father bit and, “Isn’t it rather sudden?” and “Have you really thought it through?”’
‘And have you?’ Henry caressed the cockatoo, which now clung to his upper arm and peered up at his face with its basilisk eye.
‘We have. Long ago,’ said Antonia, ‘haven’t we, Barbara?’
Barbara said, ‘Definitely.’
‘We only have to get parental consent,’ said Antonia cheerfully. ‘My father is known as “Stuffy Lowther”, but I know how to work on him.’
‘They do not want us to rush into marriage and regret it afterwards,’ Barbara explained. ‘They think “rushing into marriage” is a bad thing.’
Henry said, ‘What sensible people.’ He transferred the cockatoo from his arm to the wisteria. ‘Are you coming or not? If you don’t want to swim until the day has warmed up or wait for your future husbands to wake, I could take you for a spin in my Bentley.’
‘A Bentley!’ Barbara was impressed. ‘Oh!’
‘1926. It was my father’s.’
‘Thirty years old!’ Antonia gasped. ‘Wow! Love to.’
Henry said, ‘Buck up, then, I haven’t got all day.’
Spinning along in the Bentley Henry, raising his voice, asked, ‘And what else will your parents say? What will their reaction be? Will they be pleased?’
‘Oh, t
hey will be pleased once they are used to the idea. They have been so afraid we might want to marry some penniless person for love and then fall out of it, they will be greatly relieved,’ said Antonia.
Henry said, ‘I see.’
Barbara said, ‘They don’t really know us. They don’t know that long ago, at least two years, we decided about marriage.’
Henry said, ‘And?’
‘We decided to be detached,’ explained Antonia. ‘You might not understand, but we made up our minds not to go overboard, not to go for perfection, to settle for—’
‘Security.’
‘Well, that too, but what we decided was to choose the kind of husband who would be picked by our parents if they went in for arranged marriages; presentable, right sort of background, enough money, that sort of thing. Do you think that hard-headed and calculating?’
Henry asked ‘Do James and Matthew know about this, your detached attitude?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if James’s and Matthew’s attitude were not the same as ours, with a few minor differences,’ said Barbara, ‘except that they would never admit it.’
Henry said, ‘I dare say you are right there,’ rather grimly. Can all the old battleaxes one meets have started out like this? he wondered. ‘Over there,’ he said, ‘is the lake I swim in. I ride out, have a swim and hack home.’
‘Does, I mean, did your wife ride and swim with you?’ asked Barbara.
‘My wife does not care for horses,’ Henry answered evenly. Presently he said, ‘Would you two do something for me?’
The girls said, ‘Of course, what?’
‘If you could pick a few flowers, make an arrangement for the dinner table—’
‘That was not what you were going to ask us,’ said Antonia astutely.
Henry said, ‘No, well, it’s this. I bought a dress for my wife. I wondered whether you could pretend it’s one of yours, offer to lend it to her for the party.’
‘But she never gets out of bed,’ said Barbara.
‘There are occasions—I rather hoped’
Antonia said, ‘Of course we’ll try. We can take one of ours with it, it would look more natural. She is sure to choose yours.’
‘If you are prepared to risk a snub, it would be a kindness,’ said Henry.