He cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps you and Mrs. Fairhurst would come down and have dinner with us one evening?”
“Well,” said the chairman, looking as surprised and delighted as if it had all been Henry’s idea. “How very nice. I’m sure Mrs. Fairhurst would like that very much.”
“I’ll … I’ll tell Alison to give her a ring. They can fix a date.”
* * *
“We’re being vetted, aren’t we? For the new job,” said Alison, when he broke the news. “For all the entertaining of those foreign clients. They want to know if I can cope, if I’m socially up to it.”
“Put like that, it sounds pretty soulless, but … yes, I suppose that is what it’s all about.”
“Does it have to be terribly grand?”
“No.”
“But formal.”
“Well, he is the chairman.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Don’t look like that. I can’t bear it when you look like that.”
“Oh, Henry.” She wondered if she was going to cry, but he pulled her into his arms and hugged her and she found she wasn’t going to cry after all. Over the top of her head, he said, “Perhaps we are being vetted, but surely that’s a good sign. It’s better than being simply ignored.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” After a little, “There’s one good thing,” said Alison. “At least we’ve got a dining room.”
* * *
The next morning she made the telephone call to Mrs. Fairhurst, and, trying not to sound too nervous, duly asked Mrs. Fairhurst and her husband for dinner.
“Oh, how very kind.” Mrs. Fairhurst seemed genuinely surprised, as though this was the first she had heard of it.
“We … we thought either the sixth or the seventh of this month. Whichever suits you better.”
“Just a moment, I’ll have to find my diary.” There followed a long wait. Alison’s heart thumped. It was ridiculous to feel so anxious. At last Mrs. Fairhurst came back on the line. “The seventh would suit us very well.”
“About seven-thirty?”
“That would be perfect.”
“And I’ll tell Henry to draw Mr. Fairhurst a little map, so that you can find your way.”
“That would be an excellent idea. We have been known to get lost.”
They both laughed at this, said goodbye, and hung up. Instantly. Alison picked up the receiver again and dialled her mother’s telephone number.
“Ma.”
“Darling.”
“A favour to ask. Could you have the children for the night next Friday?”
“Of course. Why?”
Alison explained. Her mother was instantly practical. “I’ll come over in the car and collect them, just after tea. And then they can spend the night. Such a good idea. Impossible to cook a dinner and put the children to bed at the same time, and if they know there’s something going on they’ll never go to sleep. Children are all the same. What are you going to give the Fairhursts to eat?”
Alison hadn’t thought about this, but she thought about it now, and her mother made a few helpful suggestions and gave her the recipe for her own lemon soufflé. She asked after the children, imparted a few items of family news, and then rang off. Alison picked up the receiver yet again and made an appointment to have her hair done.
With all this accomplished, she felt capable and efficient, two sensations not usually familiar. Friday, the seventh. She left the telephone, went across the hall, and opened the door of the dining room. She surveyed it critically, and the dining room glowered back at her. With candles, she told herself, half-closing her eyes, and the curtains drawn, perhaps it won’t look so bad.
Oh, please, God, don’t let anything go wrong. Let me not let Henry down. For Henry’s sake, let it be a success.
God helps those who help themselves. Alison closed the dining room door, put on her coat, walked down to the village, and there bought the little notepad with pencil attached.
* * *
Her hair was dry. She emerged from the dryer, sat at a mirror, and was duly combed out.
“Going somewhere tonight?” asked the young hairdresser, wielding a pair of brushes as though Alison’s head was a drum.
“No. Not tonight. Tomorrow night. I’ve got some people coming for dinner.”
“That’ll be nice. Want me to spray it for you?”
“Perhaps you’d better.”
He squirted her from all directions, held up a mirror so that she could admire the back, and then undid the bow of the mauve nylon gown and helped Alison out of it.
“Thank you so much.”
“Have a good time tomorrow.”
Some hopes. She paid the bill, put on her coat, and went out into the street. It was getting dark. Next door to the hairdresser was a sweet shop, so she went in and bought two bars of chocolate for the children. She found her car and drove home, parked the car in the garage, and went into the house by the kitchen door. Here she found Evie giving the children their tea. Janey was in her high chair, they were eating fish fingers and chips, and the kitchen smelt fragrantly of baking.
“Well,” said Evie, looking at Alison’s head, “you are smart.”
Alison flopped into a chair and smiled at the three cheerful faces around the table. “I feel all boiled. Is there any tea left in that pot?”
“I’ll make a fresh brew.”
“And you’ve been baking.”
“Well,” said Evie, “I had a moment to spare, so I made a cake. Thought it might come in handy.”
Evie was one of the best things that had happened to Alison since coming to live in the country. She was a spinster of middle years, stout and energetic, and kept house for her bachelor brother, who farmed the land around Alison and Henry’s house. Alison had first met her in the village grocer’s. Evie had introduced herself and said that if Alison wanted free-range eggs, she could buy them from Evie. Evie kept her own hens, and supplied a few chosen families in the village. Alison accepted this offer gratefully, and took to walking the children down to the farmhouse in the afternoons to pick up the eggs.
Evie loved children. After a bit, “Any time you need a sitter, just give me a ring,” said Evie, and from time to time Alison had taken her up on this. The children liked it when Evie came to take care of them. She always brought them sweets or little presents, taught Larry card games, and was deft and loving with Janey, liking to hold the baby on her knee, with Janey’s round fair head pressed against the solid bolster of her formidable bosom.
Now, she bustled to the stove, filled a kettle, stooped to the oven to inspect her cake. “Nearly done.”
“You are kind, Evie. But isn’t it time you went home? Jack’ll be wondering what’s happened to his tea.”
“Oh, Jack went off to market today. Won’t be back till all hours. If you like, I’ll put the children to bed for you. I have to wait for the cake, anyway.” She beamed at Larry. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my duck? Have Evie bathing you. And Evie will show you how to make soap bubbles with your fingers.”
Larry put the last chip in his mouth. He was a thoughtful child, and did not commit himself readily to any impulsive scheme. He said, “Will you read me my story as well? When I’m in bed?”
“If you like.”
“I want to read Where’s Spot? There’s a tortoise in it.”
“Well, Evie shall read you that.”
* * *
When tea was finished, the three of them went upstairs. Bath water could be heard running and Alison smelt her best bubble-bath. She cleared the tea and stacked the dishwasher and turned it on. Outside, the light was fading, so before it got dark, she went out and unpegged the morning’s wash from the line, brought it indoors, folded it, stacked it in the airing cupboard. On her way downstairs, she collected a red engine, an eyeless teddy bear, a squeaking ball, and a selection of bricks. She put these in the toy basket that lived in the kitchen, laid the table for their breakfast, and a tray for the supper that she and Hen
ry would eat by the fire.
This reminded her. She went through to the sitting room, put a match to the fire, and drew the curtains. The room looked bleak without flowers, but she planned to do flowers tomorrow. As she returned to the kitchen, Catkin put in an appearance, insinuating himself through his cat door, and announcing to Alison that it was long past his dinner time and he was hungry. She opened a tin of cat food and poured him some milk, and he settled himself into a neat eating position and tidily consumed the lot.
She thought about supper for herself and Henry. In the larder was a basket of brown eggs Evie had brought with her. They would have omelettes and a salad. There were six oranges in the fruit bowl and doubtless some scraps of cheese in the cheese dish. She collected lettuce and tomatoes, half a green pepper and a couple of sticks of celery, and began to make a salad. She was stirring the French dressing when she heard Henry’s car come up the lane and pull into the garage. A moment later he appeared at the back door, looking tired and crumpled, carrying his bulging briefcase and the evening paper.
“Hi.”
“Hello, darling.” They kissed. “Had a busy day?”
“Frantic.” He looked at the salad and ate a bit of lettuce. “In this for supper?”
“Yes, and an omelette.”
“Frugal fare.” He leaned against the table. “I suppose we’re saving up for tomorrow night?”
“Don’t talk about it. Did you see Mr. Fairhurst today?”
“No, he’s been out of town. Where are the children?”
“Evie’s bathing them. Can’t you hear? She stayed on. She’d baked a cake for us and it’s still in the oven. And Jack’s at market.”
Henry yawned. “I’ll go up and tell her to leave the water in. I could do with a bath.”
* * *
Alison emptied the dishwasher and then went upstairs too. She felt, for some reason, exhausted. It was an unfamiliar treat to be able to potter around her bedroom, to feel peaceful and unhurried. She took off the clothes she had been wearing all day, opened her cupboard and reached for the velvet housecoat that Henry had given her last Christmas. It was not a garment she had worn very often, there not being many occasions in her busy life when it seemed suitable. It was lined with silk, and had a comforting and luxurious feel about it. She did up the buttons, tied the sash, slipped her feet into flat gold slippers left over from some previous summer, and went across the landing to the children’s room to say goodnight. Janey was in her cot, on the verge of sleep. Evie sat on the edge of Larry’s bed, and was just about to finish the bedtime book. Larry’s mouth was plugged with his thumb, his eyes drooped. Alison stooped to kiss him.
“See you in the morning,” she told him. He nodded, and his eyes went back to Evie. He wanted to hear the end of the story. Alison left them and went downstairs. She picked up Henry’s evening paper and took it into the sitting room to see what was on television that evening. As she did this, she heard a car come up the lane from the main road. It turned in at their gate. Headlights flashed beyond the drawn curtains. Alison lowered the paper. Gravel crunched as the car stopped outside their front door. Then the bell rang. She dropped the newspaper onto the sofa and went to open the door.
Outside, parked on the gravel, was a large black Daimler. And on the doorstep, looking both expectant and festive, stood Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst.
Her first instinct was to slam the door in their faces, scream, count to ten, and then open the door and find them gone.
But they were, undoubtedly, there, Mrs. Fairhurst was smiling. Alison smiled, too. She could feel the smile, creasing her cheeks, like something that had been slapped on her face.
“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Fairhurst, “that we’re a little bit early. We were so afraid of losing the way.”
“No. Not a bit.” Alison’s voice came out at least two octaves higher than it usually did. She’d got the date wrong. She’d told Mrs. Fairhurst the wrong day. She’d made the most appalling, most ghastly mistake. “Not a bit early.” She stood back, opening the door. “Do come in.”
They did so, and Alison closed the door behind them. They began to shed their coats.
I can’t tell them. Henry will have to tell them. He’ll have to give them a drink and tell them that there isn’t anything to eat because I thought they were coming tomorrow night.
Automatically, she went to help Mrs. Fairhurst with her fur.
“Did … did you have a good drive?”
“Yes, very good,” said Mr. Fairhurst. He wore a dark suit and a splendid tie. “Henry gave me excellent instructions.”
“And of course there wasn’t too much traffic.” Mrs. Fairhurst smelt of Chanel No. 5. She adjusted the chiffon collar of her dress and touched her hair which had, like Alison’s, been freshly done. It was silvery and elegant, and she wore diamond earrings and a beautiful brooch at the neck of her dress.
“What a charming house. How clever of you and Henry to find it.”
“Yes, we love it.” They were ready. They stood smiling at her. “Do come in by the fire.”
She led the way, into her warm, firelit, but flowerless sitting room, swiftly gathered up the newspaper from the sofa and pushed it beneath a pile of magazines. She moved an armchair closer to the fire. “Do sit down, Mrs. Fairhurst. I’m afraid Henry was a little late back from the office. He’ll be down in just a moment.”
She should offer them a drink, but the drinks were in the kitchen cupboard and it would seem both strange and rude to go out and leave them on their own. And supposing they asked for dry martinis? Henry always did the drinks, and Alison didn’t know how to make a dry martini.
Mrs. Fairhurst lowered herself comfortably into the chair. She said, “Jock had to go to Birmingham this morning, so I don’t suppose he’s seen Henry today—have you, dear?”
“No, I didn’t get into the office.” He stood in front of the fire and looked about him appreciatively. “What a pleasant room this is.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Do you have a garden?”
“Yes. About an acre. It’s really too big.” She looked about her frantically, and her eyes lighted upon the cigarette box. She picked it up and opened it. There were four cigarettes inside. “Would you like a cigarette?”
But Mrs. Fairhurst did not smoke, and Mr. Fairhurst said that if Alison did not mind, he would smoke one of his own cigars. Alison said that she did not mind at all, and put the box back on the table. A number of panic-stricken images flew through her mind. Henry, still lolling in his bath; the tiny salad which was all that she had made for supper; the dining room, icy cold and inhospitable.
“Do you do the garden by yourselves?”
“Oh … oh, yes. We’re trying. It was in rather a mess when we bought the house.”
“And you have two little children?” This was Mrs. Fairhurst, gallantly keeping the ball of conversation going.
“Yes. Yes, they’re in bed. I have a friend—Evie. She’s the farmer’s sister. She put them to bed for me.”
What else could one say? Mr. Fairhurst had lighted his cigar, and the room was filled with its expensive fragrance. What else could one do? Alison took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’d both like a drink. What can I get for you?”
“Oh, how lovely.” Mrs. Fairhurst glanced about her, and saw no evidence of either bottles or wineglasses, but if she was put out by this, graciously gave no sign. “I think a glass of sherry would be nice.”
“And you, Mr. Fairhurst?”
“The same for me.”
She blessed them both silently for not asking for martinis. “We … we’ve got a bottle of Tio Pepe…?”
“What a treat!”
“The only thing is … would you mind very much if I left you on your own for a moment? Henry—he didn’t have time to do a drink tray.”
“Don’t worry about us,” she was assured. “We’re very happy by this lovely fire.”
Alison withdrew, closing the door gently behind her. It was all more awful
than anything one could possibly have imagined. And they were so nice, darling people, which only made it all the more dreadful. They were behaving quite perfectly, and she had had neither the wit nor the intelligence to remember which night she had asked them for.
But there was no time to stand doing nothing but hate herself. Something had to be done. Silently, on slippered feet, she sped upstairs. The bathroom door stood open, as did their bedroom door. Beyond this in a chaos of abandoned bathtowels, socks, shoes, and shirts, stood Henry, dressing himself with the speed of light.
“Henry, they’re here.”
“I know.” He pulled a clean shirt over his head, stuffed it into his trousers, did up the zipper, and reached for a necktie. “Saw them from the bathroom window.”
“It’s the wrong night. I must have made a mistake.”
“I’ve already gathered that.” Sagging at the knees in order to level up with the mirror, he combed his hair.
“You’ll have to tell them.”
“I can’t tell them.”
“You mean, we’ve got to give them dinner?”
“Well, we’ve to to give them something.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Have they had a drink?”
“No.”
“Well, give them a drink right away, and we’ll try to sort the rest of the evening out after that.”
They were talking in whispers. He wasn’t even looking at her properly.
“Henry, I’m sorry.”
He was buttoning his waistcoat. “It can’t be helped. Just go down and give them a drink.”
* * *
She flew back downstairs, paused for a moment at the closed sitting-room door, and heard from behind it the companionable murmur of married chat. She blessed them once again for being the sort of people who always had things to say to each other, and made for the kitchen. There was the cake, fresh from the oven. There was the salad. And these was Evie, her hat on, her coat buttoned, and just about off. “You’ve got visitors,” she remarked, looking pleased.
“They’re not visitors. It’s the Fairhursts. Henry’s chairman and his wife.”