Читать книгу Moonshine - Victoria Clayton - Страница 11

‘Poor woman!’ Kit poured me another glass of wine as we waited for two cups of coffee at the inn near the border between Limerick and Clare. ‘After applying herself sedulously all evening to the work she must have been annoyed to see you pocket the sweepstake. So you fell in love with him because he neglected you. Or was it because you saw him as a man of power surrounded by adoring women?’

‘I wasn’t in love with him then. We were still strangers, virtually.’

‘But you were piqued by his indifference. You were in that state of pre-infatuation when the chosen one is supremely fascinating in all his, or her, words and deeds.’

‘Perhaps. It had nothing to do with the old saw that power is an aphrodisiac. If he’d been a Labour politician it might have been slightly better. But until I got to know Burgo I was convinced that all politicians’ souls had been traded in at an early age. And there isn’t a species of male I dislike more than the Conservative toff. As it turned out, perhaps unfortunately for me, Burgo wasn’t one of them. He loathes their craving for caste conformity. He’s a Conservative because he thinks Socialism’s hidebound by political theory and because he wants independence from the trade unions. The Labour Party has to wear its heart on its sleeve, however economically undesirable it might be to cripple industry in favour of handouts to the improvident. Burgo doesn’t care about image. He thinks there are good men and monsters on both sides and all that matters is being effective.’

‘In the light of what you say I’m glad I’ve never voted Tory. I shouldn’t like to be so comprehensively despised by my elected representative. But no doubt the Labour and Liberal MPs are equally contemptuous of the great unnumbered. But to hell with politics. What I want to know is what happened when you went into the garden alone on a beautiful summer’s night to view the Temple of Hygeia?’

‘You can’t really be interested. This is just therapy, isn’t it?’

Kit laughed. ‘Of course it’s good for you to talk. But I’m honestly intrigued. Though you’re trying to make it matter-of-fact your face and voice betray you.’

I smiled calmly but made a mental resolve that they should do so no longer. It was true that I was giving Kit an edited account of the beginning of my affair with Burgo but while I was talking I found I was reliving some of the sensations of a year ago, when all my ideas about myself, of the sort of person I was and what I was capable of doing and feeling, had been knocked for six.

‘Now don’t get cagey,’ Kit continued. ‘As I said, it’s good for you to get things off that delightful chest. And I’m your ideal audience. A stranger you need never see again if you don’t want to. I promise I’m not being polite. I make my living assessing the outpourings of professional pen-drivers. I do it because I dearly love a yarn. And my first requirement is total involvement in the tale. As soon as I’m aware that my mind has wandered to when I’m supposed to be picking up my shirts from the laundry or whether the dog’s toenails need clipping, then the manuscript goes straight into the out tray. I’ll let you know if you’re boring me.’

‘What sort of dog is it?’

‘I haven’t actually got one. It was merely an illustration.’

‘Oh.’ I was disappointed. ‘I’ve always wanted a border collie. Or anything, really, that needs a home. But it wouldn’t be fair to keep one in London, when I’m working all day.’

‘You’re temporizing. I want to hear about Mr Latimer, the answer to a suffragette’s prayer. OK, you needn’t shatter my nerves with explicit descriptions of a sexual kind if you don’t want to – leave me leaning against the bedroom door – but get on with it, Bobbie. Your audience is agog.’

I got on.

‘Should we ask her to come with us, do you think?’ I asked Burgo as soon as we were in the hall.

‘Who?’

‘The woman in the magenta dress.’

‘Is that what you call it? I thought it was purple.’

‘She looked a little sorry to see you go.’

‘We ran out of things to say to each other halfway through dinner. She’s thankful to be rid of me.’

‘You’re not a very good liar, are you?’ By this time we had walked the length of a passage and reached a door that led into the garden.

Burgo laughed. ‘We had quite an interesting chat about the iniquitous doings of King Leopold in the Belgian Congo earlier on. But most of the conversation was about her. Her husband is a brute and a philanderer. And he drinks. Much as other husbands, in fact.’

‘Are you those things?’

‘I expect I would be if I spent much time being a husband. Anna is spared my uxorial shortcomings at least six months of the year. Look at that!’

The lawn shimmered with raindrops but the sky had cleared. The moon lay like a silver dish at the bottom of a large pond, quivering faintly as the wind breathed over the surface of the water. The shadows of the trees and hedges were knife-sharp.

‘It’s beautiful!’ I said. ‘And the scent!’

I could smell honeysuckle and roses and something else overwhelmingly sweet, perhaps jasmine. We strolled side by side, brushing against wet bushes that overhung the gravel path. The first lungfuls of fresh air banished any desire to yawn. The trunks of a stilt hedge laid shadow bars across our path. We entered a parterre of box, the squares filled with flowers, grey and lavender by moonlight. I ran my hand along the top of a hedge of rosemary, releasing a pungent scent which made me think of heat and Italy. And food.

‘How can you be hungry?’ asked Burgo when I confessed this. ‘You’ve just eaten five courses.’

‘That has nothing to do with it. With me hunger is connected with mood. I can’t eat properly when I’m not enjoying myself. I barely tasted the soup or the beef Wellington when I was being harangued by the beastly surgeon about Stalinist purges. At home when things are miserable I go for days eating practically nothing.’

‘I’ve got a bag of caramels. Will that do?’

‘It would be heaven.’ I took one from the packet he gave me. ‘What a strange thing to have in one’s dinner-jacket pocket.’

‘I always carry sweets. For any children I may come across. I’m supposed to kiss them but I’d rather not. Their runny noses put me off. So I give them a sweet and they like it much better than being mauled by a strange man.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘You’re shocked by the cynical contrivances of a politician’s everyday life?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘Well, don’t let that interfere with your enjoyment of the caramels.’

‘I’m ashamed to say it isn’t in the least. I haven’t had a toffee for years. It may well be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.’

‘Does that mean you’re particularly enjoying yourself?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘So you can flirt.’

‘Of course I can. But not with married men. It’s a strict rule of mine.’

‘And you’ve kept to it admirably. How wise you are, Roberta Pickford-Norton.’

‘Perhaps that’s going too far, but I’m not an absolute fool.’

He bowed gravely. ‘I’m sure of that.’

We walked slowly. I ate another toffee. Epicurus was right to insist that man’s principal duty was the pursuit of pleasure. We followed the path until it came to a narrow gap in a dense high hedge. He stood aside to let me go through. A square about half the size of the drawing room was filled with beds of roses. Behind them, forming one side of the square, was a small building with a pointed roof, upflung eaves and fretted windows in the oriental fashion.

‘A China House!’ I was thrilled. ‘What a marvellous thing to find! I had no idea there was one in this part of the world. A wonderful example of sharawadgi!’

‘What’s that?’

‘Sharawadgi is an eighteenth-century word. It means the first impression, the impact on the eye of something surprising and delightful. A shock of pleasure. In this century it’s been revived with particular application to landscape gardening and garden architecture. It’s a quasi-Chinese word made up by a European, no one quite knows who.’

‘Sharawadgi,’ Burgo repeated solemnly. ‘I like that.’

‘I don’t know if I’m telling you something you already know, but England was tremendously influenced by the Chinese taste in gardening in the eighteenth century. It became known as the anglais-chinois style when it filtered through to the rest of Europe, finally ousting the Italian and Dutch fashions. But because the buildings were made of wood, most of them have decayed. This must be one of just a handful. Forgive the lecturing tone.’

‘I like being told things. And I didn’t know.’

‘But how marvellous that Dickie has restored it. What a nice man he is. Can we go in?’

The door was stiff and Burgo had to be firm with it. The faint smell of new paint was quickly absorbed by the rose-scented air that accompanied us inside. Though the moonlight streamed in, the room was filled with gloomy shadows. As my eyes adjusted I made out a predictable set of garden furniture, a wicker sofa and two chairs grouped round a coffee table.

‘This should be decorated with Chinese scenes of dragons and tigers, water lilies and fans, that sort of thing.’ I walked about examining the room. ‘And there should be scarlet screens and lacquered furniture. And really the garden ought to be Chinese as well, with a pond and a bridge.’

‘You must tell Dickie. He’ll be overjoyed to find that someone shares his enthusiasm. Fleur cares for nothing but her beloved animals. I’m sure he’d appreciate some help with the project.’

‘Well, if you really think … I could make a few suggestions.’

‘I realize I’ve no right to treat you like a social worker but I’d be grateful if that meant you’d see something of Fleur,’ Burgo said. ‘She has no women friends. She doesn’t work so she has no colleagues either. Her shyness prevents her from taking part in charitable exercises like the Red Cross and so on. And the fact that she has no children separates her even more. I’ve seen how women support one another, and enjoy being with each other, despite the usual platitudes about women being catty, which of course are also true.’

So that was why he had invited me. For Fleur’s sake. I ran my fingers over a section of white-washed tracery that I was almost certain was a stylized pagoda.

‘She’ll have children later on, won’t she?’

‘She and Dickie sleep in separate rooms. It was a condition she made when she married him.’

I was touched by this evidence of Dickie’s devotion to Fleur. How many other men would have agreed to such a stipulation? I couldn’t think of one.

‘I’d be delighted to see Fleur again if she’d like it. What a good brother you are.’

‘No, I’m extremely selfish. I found looking after Fleur a worry and a responsibility. So when Dickie wanted to marry her I encouraged her to accept him. Despite the horse I don’t think she would have, if she hadn’t wanted to please me. She’s always valued my opinion more than it’s worth. Now I can see they’re neither of them particularly happy. But if you think that’s why I asked you to come here tonight: to befriend Fleur, you’re wrong.’

I turned from the window to which I had gravitated. I could see his face quite clearly now as he came to stand beside me. Until that moment he had not said a word to which the most captious guardian of morals could have taken exception. Neither overtly nor covertly had he sought to fascinate me. He had been as a brother. Now he looked at me calmly, with a suggestion of polite interrogation as though about to ask me whether I cared for touring abroad. He did not sigh sentimentally or attempt to take my hand.

Yet something threatened, like the shivering of a snowcap in response to an echo from the valley below, which sent me swiftly to the door.

‘I must go home. I’m so glad … It’s lovely. I’ll talk to Dickie about it if I get the chance.’

I turned the handle but the door held fast. I pulled hard, struggling, almost panting with the effort to escape.

‘Let me.’ Burgo engaged energetically with the handle and the door gave way with a shudder. ‘There you are. Deliverance.’

I thought I detected something like laughter or even derision in his eyes as he stood back to let me go through it before him. We walked back to the house. Burgo strolled beside me, his hands in his pockets, looking thoroughly relaxed.

Had he an ulterior purpose in taking me to see the China House? The situation had an air of contrivance about it. A cushioned sofa in a remote and romantic arbour, practically a love-nest … I accused myself of a chronic, spinsterish tendency to doubt men’s motives. I had jumped at Burgo’s invitation to go to see it and it had been my idea to look inside. Was I so cynical that I suspected that every man who found himself alone in the moonlight with a woman not actually hideous would try his luck with her? Well, yes. But after all, what had Burgo done? Precisely nothing. He might have been about to ask my opinion of his lunchtime speech. Or to confess to a troubled childhood. Damn the man! He could at least have made his intentions clear so that I could have apprised him swiftly and unequivocally of his mistake.

‘So,’ said Kit, finishing a cup of terrible coffee. ‘He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. You women don’t know how lucky you are. Pity us poor blokes trying to interpret the signals from a girl who thinks she might fancy you if you make a sufficiently manly lunge, yet who might on the other hand want to scream the house down. I bet you’ve never been in the position of having to make the running. If you met a man you wouldn’t mind a game of Irish whist with and he seemed a bit slow off the mark in taking you up, what would you do?’

‘I’d assume he didn’t like card games.’

‘When a phrase has Irish in it, it usually means something not to be taken literally. Often it means the opposite, or it’s describing something inferior as exaggeratedly superior. To have an Irish dinner means to have nothing to eat. An Irish nightingale is a frog. An Irish hurricane is what the navy call a flat calm. Irish curtains are cobwebs. Do you see? To throw Irish confetti is to chuck bricks at something.’

‘Rather insulting to the Irish, isn’t it?’

‘For some reason it’s been the common sport of nations to make a laughing stock of Paddy and Mick. But now the Irish are so powerful in the States, they can afford to ignore the banter.’

‘So Irish whist means … oh, I see, sex. What you men can’t seem to grasp is that a woman rarely thinks like that. Naturally, if she really liked a man she’d be prepared to scheme. She might try to run into him unexpectedly, or take up parachuting if that was his hobby. But she wouldn’t be plotting to get his clothes off in record time. She’d be thinking about a love affair.’

‘Men can be romantic, too,’ Kit protested. ‘But these days they’re unlikely to wax warm about a woman who won’t nail his hat to the ceiling pretty soon after meeting him.’

‘You’re ignoring the fact that plenty of men would be put off by a woman who made a blatant advance.’

‘We’ll conduct an experiment.’ Kit summoned the landlord and took out his wallet. ‘Make a blatant advance and let’s see how I react.’

I prepared myself for argument. ‘I really must insist on paying my share.’ I put a five-pound note on the table.

‘How kind.’ Kit picked up the note and gave it to the landlord. ‘That’ll pay for my lunch too. But you needn’t think you’ve bought me,’ he added as we left the pub.

The landlord’s wife, overhearing this, fixed her eyes on us with keen interest. As we drove away I looked back and saw her standing at the open door, staring after us.

‘All right.’ Kit accelerated with a growl from the engine as we came to a straight bit of road. ‘Back to the story. You were stalking back to the house in high dudgeon because Burgo had – or possibly hadn’t – tried to seduce you.’

‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear—’

‘Will you get on with it!’

The moonlight must have been partly to blame for my confusion. It poured down upon the garden, washing the grass with silver. It was an enchanted place. A fountain splashed beside a statue of a naked woman with a pig at her feet. Or more likely a dog. A faint breeze swept over the lawns. Ghostly foxgloves waved their wands of ashen flowers, binding one with spells. As I passed beneath an arch I ducked to avoid the branch of a rose and a shower of scented petals dripped over me. It was impossible to be rational and wise on such a night as this.

‘You remember that description of moonshine?’ Burgo had stopped and was gazing upwards. ‘Shakespeare, I think. Perhaps A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You’re supposed to be able to see a man with a lantern, a dog and a thorn-bush in the pattern made by the craters.’

The sky was spangled with stars. The melancholy face of the moon stared down open-mouthed, contemplating human folly. A shiver ran down my back. It may have been a petal.

I had to make an effort to speak. ‘I think I just can.’

He was looking down at me, his pale hair gleaming, his face hidden by shadows. I felt again a sense of appalling danger but I almost didn’t care.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he said. ‘What are you thinking about?’

The flowers – the garden – the intoxicating scent – the bliss of being alive on such a night as this, I wanted to cry. I longed to run and dance and lift my arms to Ch’ang-o, the Chinese goddess who stole her husband’s drug of immortality and went to live in the moon to escape his wrath. But by a supreme effort at self-control I managed to keep my arms by my sides and walk on, a little faster.

‘I was wondering how many hours it would take to mow so much grass.’

‘No! Were you? What a practical girl you are, after all.’

I heard disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes. I am.’

‘I’ll find Simon and we’ll take you home. It must be nearly twelve. As a prudent, sensible woman I expect you subscribe to the view that an hour before midnight is worth two after?’

‘I most certainly do.’

‘Nothing happened in the garden,’ I informed Kit.