Not That Sort of Girl

  ‘Would you have cared for ours?’ she wrote on a postcard which she tore up on the way to the post. (Many of the letters she wrote him got torn before posting.) She wrote instead a scrawled sheet enclosed in an envelope, ‘She is not a nice girl, but she will make Christopher happy.’ It seemed of paramount importance to be honest, not to pretend to him as she did with the rest of the world that she liked Helen.

  Over the years Alice, Victoria’s child by Picot, aged twenty-five at the time of the Venetian meeting, played the part of invisible go-between. ‘How is Alice?’ Rose would enquire and news came back that Alice and her family were spending the summer at Cape Cod or, the year that Picot, rich, growing elderly, retired now from his post in Monsieur Pompidou’s government, had finally acknowledged parenthood and settled a lump sum on Alice, they, this included Mylo and Victoria, spent part of the summer in the Ardèche. (Not a great success. Picot needed help with his memoirs which Mylo had not been willing to give.) Rose tried to imagine Alice, searched between the lines of information about Alice and her family for Mylo hiding like a sea anemone in the weeds of his stepdaughter’s mundane life. Alice was helpful when Victoria was away (where?) and Mylo had jaundice. / Alice had done some useful research for him. What research? / She kept her mother company while he was in Peru. What was he doing in Peru? / She was helpful when they moved house. Where to? Where from?

  Rose sent her sparse letters c/o Mylo’s publishers, distancing herself deliberately. So, sparingly they wrote but did not meet; several times she suspected that he had spent time in England, not made contact. The years flew on or dragged by, according to mood and state of health. When she thought of it, reminded perhaps by a tone of voice in a crowd, a whiff of drains, Rose congratulated herself that their love had ended on such a high, not dwindled as most loves do into habit. ‘Shall we go to Venice this year? You’ve never been to Venice,’ Ned once asked.

  ‘I don’t think I could bear the smell. Why don’t you get Emily and Nicholas to go with you?’ Would Ned admit that he had already been twice with Emily alone?

  ‘I find Nicholas rather trying in large doses. One used to get Emily to oneself—not any more,’ he answered grumpily. He knew that she knew all about Emily.

  ‘Yes. She cleaves to Nicholas more than ever. Poor you.’

  Ned said, ‘What? Can’t hear you. Wish you’d speak up, not mumble.’

  Virtuously Rose held back the words often shouted these days by Harold Rhys and Ian Johnson’s wives, ‘You’re getting deaf.’ Unberufen, as Nicholas would have said during the 1939–45 war, that she should grow like those boring old women.

  ‘About time we invited what’s-his-name, oh, Arthur and Milly, to dinner,’ said Ned, dredging round for substitute company.

  ‘All right, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll ring them up.’ I must not allow myself to be beastly to Ned.

  The note on the hall table in the cleaning lady’s script (the Farthings were long since retired, living in a granny flat in the erstwhile evacuees’ house) said, ‘A Mr Cooper will be waiting for you on platform one, Paddington Station, mid-day—12 o’clock—tomorrow.’

  When the train pulled in he was sitting on a luggage trolley waiting for her. ‘I need to talk to you.’ He put both arms around her, kissed her mouth. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘What has happened to you?’ He looked terrible.

  ‘Perhaps we could walk in the Park, or is it too cold for you?’

  ‘No, no.’ She walked beside him to the taxi queue. He looked gaunt, she thought. He has lost weight, his hair more white than grey now.

  ‘Lovely cockatoos!’ His face lit up as they passed a group of punks with rainbow hair and painted faces. ‘In Molière’s day it was the women who did that, they were known as Les Précieuses Ridicules. Here’s a taxi, jump in.’

  In the taxi he sat looking straight ahead, he held her hand. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

  They walked under bare February trees in the east wind. ‘Shall we sit for a while?’ They sat on a bench and looked across the grass to the wintry Serpentine. A group of children bounced along the Row on plump ponies.

  ‘Loosen that curb rein, Samantha, don’t tug his mouth,’ shouted the riding instructor.

  ‘How is Ned?’ asked Mylo.

  ‘Well. Getting a bit worn. He’s over seventy, gone a bit deaf, trouble with his teeth. That sort of thing, otherwise …’

  ‘Victoria died,’ said Mylo quietly.

  ‘Died?’ Those lovely eyes.

  ‘It took a very long time.’ His cheeks were deeply furrowed, what she could see of the stubble mostly white.

  ‘Oh, dear God. Cancer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing. Shall we walk for a bit? You mustn’t get cold.’

  ‘When was it?’

  ‘Nearly a year ago. It’s terribly unfair. She never hurt anybody. It took such a bloody long time. She was in such pain. I kept wishing I had the nerve to kill her. She asked me to kill her, she asked me to ask the doctors—I even got the drugs, bought them from a junkie. Alice, her daughter, was being marvellous—you know how they are? Kept on at the doctors to try this, try that … It’s grotesque what the marvels of modern science come up with to prolong suffering, keep ’em alive. Who enjoys that life? Certainly not Victoria.’

  ‘No, no, no, she had such wonderful eyes.’

  ‘Yes, weren’t they? Wonderful eyes in a plain face. Used to remind me of Comrade.’

  ‘So that’s why …’

  ‘I married her? It may have played a part. You are cold.’ He took her hands and rubbed them between his. ‘Haven’t you got any gloves?’

  ‘I was in a hurry.’

  ‘The shameful thing was that all those months … I am so glad to see you, darling … the terrible thing was that all the time Victoria was dying I kept thanking God it wasn’t you.’

  Rose stared at him.

  ‘One can’t control those obscene and shabby thoughts. Then, too, I had the drugs. I had the drugs without the nerve to administer them. I should have made the opportunity but there was this—it was not you dying, you see, so I lacked the urgency, the whatever it takes, I just couldn’t—anyway, I didn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you glad she’s dead, darling?’ (Gently.)

  ‘No, oh, no.’

  ‘Nor am I, except that her pain is over.’ He stopped his stride, bent to kiss her. ‘Are these tears?’

  ‘The wind. The east wind.’

  ‘M-m-m. Shall we walk on? We don’t need to catch pneumonia. D’you know my Aunt Louise caught pneumonia almost immediately I got her back to England and died? Really, sometimes one wonders—I had to tell you about Victoria, needed to.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Then there’s Ned. What will you think when he dies? Probably you won’t know what to think. There’s so little emotion left after a prolonged … do forgive me boring on like this … then there’s your promise never to leave him. What could have been more idiotic? Do you truly believe you stayed with him because of that? Of course you don’t. I don’t. I think you did promise. I’ve always accepted that, and it’s been useful.’

  ‘You think I chose cake?’

  ‘Does it matter now?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been commissioned to write a book about Thailand. I fly off tomorrow.’

  ‘It will be nice and warm there,’ she said sadly.

  Mylo did not answer. They were walking now with their backs to the wind.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ Rose exclaimed. ‘We have people coming to dinner and I’d clean forgotten.’

  ‘I’ll take you back to Paddington, there’s a train at two forty-five.’ He swung her round towards the Bayswater Road.

  ‘What will you …?’

  ‘I have to meet my agent. It’s all right, darling.’

  ‘Mylo …’ The wind whipped at her.

  ‘One thing.’ He still h
eld her arm. ‘If it had been you dying, I would not have hesitated, I would not have let them stop me, I would have killed you,’ he took her face in his hands and kissed her, ‘however difficult. Here’s a taxi, pop in.’

  Sitting in the train she reproached herself bitterly. She had said so little, not known where to start with the torrent of pent-up words. As the train put on speed, the voice on the intercom informed her that the bar was open now. The buffet could provide tea, coffee, toasted sandwiches and soft drinks. People stood up and began to push past her, swaying with the movement of the train. Watching them go by she mourned the cold comfort she had given Mylo. I failed him, I failed him, I failed him, her thoughts chugged in time with the train. Contrapuntally she started to fuss about Ned’s friends Arthur and Milly coming to dine. Once before she had forgotten people were coming, another pair of Ned’s friends, she had made no provision. At the last moment they had taken the surprised guests to a restaurant. Ned had been so cross, made a scene, nursed a grudge, gone on about her incompetence for weeks. I don’t think I can bear that again, she thought, not after seeing Mylo today. Then, remembering that the day was Wednesday, early closing for her local shops, she let out a wail. The couple sitting opposite looked at her askance. ‘Just a twinge.’ She smiled falsely like a dog about to bite, got up, made her way to the buffet car to buy an expensive paper cup of tinged water, changed her mind when she saw it and had a double brandy.

  Arrived, she retrieved her car from the station car park, drove into the town. Surely some shop somewhere would be open? How stupid can you get, she thought, walking up the empty street, all the shops shut on Wednesdays. I am only putting off the evil moment of telling Ned I have no dinner for his friends and him asking whether I have lost my marbles en permanence.

  As she walked, pulling her shopping trolley behind her, empty and likely to remain so, a Land-rover passed, pulling a trailer. Catching a salty sniff, she peered into the trailer and beheld boxes of crabs. The Land-rover hesitated at the turning into the High Street to let a couple of lorries go by. During this pause Rose reached into the trailer and helped herself.

  As the driver of the Land-rover changed gear and accelerated Rose walked sedately back to her car, her only worry now whether to crush garlic into the mayonnaise she would make and turn it into aïoli, or have it plain.

  Presently, the guests departed; duty done, she would gain her bed, shared now with Comrade’s great-great-grandchildren (Ned had years ago moved into a separate bedroom) and if she felt like it, weep for Mylo.

  And did I weep? Rose questioned, standing by the water’s edge. Most unlikely. Our parallel lines had grown past weeping and the theft of the crabs had a curative effect, quite a boost.

  It takes a happening like Christopher and Helen squabbling two days after Ned’s funeral, their decision to take my dogs with them when they decided to walk off their spleen, allowing them to get crushed by a juggernaut as they argued, probably about me, instead of keeping an eye on my dogs, my company, my last links however tenuous with Mylo to make me cry.

  ‘I shall catch my death standing here,’ Rose said out loud.

  She stamped her feet on the path to warm them, squared her shoulders.

  51

  ROSE WAS AWARE THAT her feet were cold. A fog rolled up the creek, invisible hands pulled a wispy duvet along the water. She watched its advance billowing along quite fast, distorting the few sounds left by winter, twigs dropping in the wood behind her, the cry of a coot across the water. Far above, a plane flew leaving an unravelling vapour trail. Did it come from Thailand?

  Fool, I am sixty-seven, not seventeen.

  Looking down she found herself shoulder deep in vapour. Her body was chilled, she wanted to pee, she shivered. Irrationally she feared that if she stepped out of sight into the wood she would twist her ankle crossing the ditch, slip and fall. Her walk had been so peopled by thoughts, she had not noticed how alone she was.

  She unzipped her trousers, squatted on the path, disappearing below the fog. Standing up she heard a man’s voice calling: ‘Mrs Peel? Mrs Peel?’ The sound was muffled but coming closer. ‘Mrs Peel?’ She could see his head and shoulders reared above the fog. ‘Mrs Peel?’ It was the owner of the hotel.

  ‘Here I am,’ she said, stepping towards him. ‘What is it?’ She did not want him to scent her urine on the path.

  ‘We thought you might have got lost. These fogs roll up from the sea so quickly it is easy to become disorientated.’ He was irritated, anxious, obviously he didn’t want to lose a foolish guest. Any mischance would damage the reputation of the hotel; he blamed her for his anxiety.

  ‘As you see I am not lost, though I may well be disorientated, but thank you.’

  ‘You have had no breakfast. My wife was worried.’ Still he blamed her. The head and shoulders visible above the fog attracted pearly drops from the deafening atmosphere.

  ‘How kind, I am ravenous.’ And so she was, now she thought of it, walking beside the hotelier. ‘Do you like being a hotelier?’ she asked, hoping to raise their chat to a more frivolous plane. She had to talk; it was not possible to walk in silence, which would have been preferable but ill mannered.

  ‘It has its moments. Would you like the full breakfast or coffee and croissants? My wife … We close at the end of the week for a winter break.’

  ‘That will be an important moment. Just the coffee and croissants, please. Sounds delicious.’ She hurried beside him in the fog (I could perfectly well have found my way back by myself). ‘Ah, here is your cat come to meet us. We met last night and again this morning.’ She stooped to caress the animal as it did its best to trip her by winding melodiously round her ankles. ‘She’s talkative, too.’

  ‘Do you have cats?’ Her host’s voice was affectionate towards the cat. He had not forgiven her for causing unease.

  ‘Not now. Nor do I have dogs. Nor garden—no ties at all, come to think of it. Nothing to restrain me. It’s really rather scary, takes getting used to, being loose.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking at her sidelong. ‘Um.’

  ‘M-m-m …’

  ‘I will see about your breakfast; we call it petit déjeuner,’ he rallied.

  ‘Of course you do.’ (She must not laugh.)

  ‘Would you like it in your room?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please. And thank you for coming to look for me.’ (Had an unwary guest once fallen drunk into the creek?) ‘I must pack my bag. And might I use your telephone? There is a call, maybe several calls, I have to make …’

  ‘I will have it plugged into your room.’

  ‘And have my bill ready.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Certainly the bill. One paid the bill, the tally, the reckoning. One settled one’s account at the end. ‘I shall swallow my pride with the croissants.’ She smiled at the man.

  ‘Er?’

  ‘I may not be able, now that I am free, to pay what I owe.’ They had reached the hotel now and the fog was lifting. She watched the cat run ahead, pat the door with an arrogant paw, raise its whiskered snout to yowl: ‘I observe that there’s a perfectly good cat flap,’ she said.

  ‘She’s too bloody proud to use it, she won’t stoop. We take all the main credit cards, naturally, if …’ He stressed the last sentence.

  ‘Aha!’ said Rose laughing. ‘Credit! Of course.’

  The manager wondered what there was that was so funny. ‘Even Eurocheques,’ he said.

  Avec le petit déjeuner, thought Rose. ‘Don’t forget to charge me for my phone calls,’ she said.

  52

  THE CHURCH HAD BEEN packed. The young couple, popular single, would be popular as a pair. One or both of them had an inordinate number of relations. Although they had arrived early Nicholas, Emily and Laura had been relegated to a pew a long way back.

  ‘That usher can’t have known who we are,’ said Emily as they regained their car.

  ‘Of course he did. That was Richard Malone’s youngest. He knows us all right,??
? snapped Nicholas.

  ‘I thought he was still at school,’ said Emily.

  ‘Time passes, Mama. He left university years ago; he works in the City.’ Laura spoke from the back seat.

  ‘I thought the bride almost indecently virginal,’ said Nicholas. ‘Are those cars ever going to get a move on? I need a drink.’ The Thornby car was stationary in a line waiting to get free of the village. A number of people had parked inconveniently, causing a jam on the route to the reception.

  ‘It’s the mode to be virginal,’ said Laura.

  ‘Barbara Cartland?’ questioned Emily.

  ‘AIDS,’ said Laura.

  ‘In spite of being stuck at the back I quite enjoyed the spectacle,’ said Nicholas and tooted his horn. ‘Don’t know many of the people here, though.’

  ‘No use hooting, Nicholas, consume your soul in patience like everyone else,’ said Emily.

  ‘You misquote, Mama; it’s “possess ye your souls …”’

  ‘Don’t be such a know-all, Laura, my soul is consumed.’

  Laura raised her eyebrows.

  ‘There was a fine turnout of elderlies,’ said Nicholas. ‘The finest collection of lines, wrinkles, scraggy necks, crêpey skin, bags, bald heads, dowagers’ humps, arthritic limbs, shuffling, hobbling, rheumy-eyed old crones and cronies I’ve seen in years. A wedding is better than a funeral for a geriatric turnout.’

  ‘Your generation,’ said Laura caustically.

  ‘We do not suffer from cachexia,’ snapped her mother.

  ‘And there are others besides us,’ Nicholas allowed, ‘there’s poor Rose. There were several in the church carrying their years with decorum, not to say panache.’

  ‘Move on, Nicholas, can’t you see the queue’s moving? Rose was not there.’

  ‘Of course I can. Shut up.’ Nicholas clunked into gear. ‘I didn’t say she was there; my point was that she has worn remarkably well, as well if not better than us.’

  ‘Look out, Nicholas, you’ll hit that car …’

  ‘God! Emily. Must you? Actually the old boy who gave the bride away was pretty trim.’