Читать книгу A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs - Victoria Clayton - Страница 12

9

The other guests were standing close to the fire in the drawing room. Evelyn was conspicuous because of her formidable chic. Her hair, cut short, was silvery white and had been for years. Though she was nearly sixty her skin was hardly lined and her figure was excellent. On Evelyn’s face, Isobel’s features, the slanting eyes, the Grecian nose and the slightly receding chin, had sharpened and refined further with age. She reminded me of a beautiful hawk. She wore a full-length black-velvet-flocked chiffon dress, beautifully cut with a wide satin belt fastened with a diamante clasp. The drawing room, with its panelled walls painted several shades of grey, was the perfect background for her. I would have liked to be invisible for a few minutes so I could glide about uninterrupted and reacquaint myself with the furniture and objects in this most elegant of rooms.

‘Marigold!’ Evelyn advanced with outstretched arms. ‘My poor wounded girl!’ She enfolded me briefly in Après L’Ondée, the scent she had always worn. ‘It’s been too long, darling. I don’t count that marvellous ballet. Such a crush and I was in a hurry. Too lovely, all those swans …’ There had not been so much as a cygnet in The Firebird but I knew better than to contradict her. She ran her eye quickly over my dress. ‘Hm. Unusual. A good colour with your hair.’ Sheltering me with her arm as within a palisade, she turned back to her guests. ‘Everyone, this is Marigold Savage. I have known Marigold since she was a baby and I’m very proud of her. She is a prima ballerina.’

Most of the other guests looked blank but one man said, ‘Not really! Well, this is exciting!’ He stepped forward to shake my hand. He had pale wispy hair and a thin, lanky body. The only substantial thing about him was his enormous nose. ‘Duncan Vardy. I’m something of a balletomane. Marigold Savage.’ He wrinkled his nose as he thought, exposing a forest of nostril hair. ‘I can’t quite … which company are you with?’

‘The Lenoir Ballet Company,’ I said. ‘And I’m not a prima ballerina, I’m afraid, just a principal dancer.’

‘Jolly good.’ He laughed uncertainly.

‘Duncan is a writer,’ said Evelyn. ‘I’m reading his most fascinating book at the moment about …’ she paused, hardly perceptibly, ‘the Cosmic Visions of Volupsà.’

Evelyn liked to leaven the dough of hunting Tories with the yeast of artists and intellectuals.

‘Voluspà,’ corrected Duncan with an air of patience. He must have been used to people not quite grasping his subject. ‘Are you interested in Old Norse, Miss Savage?’

‘I’m sure I would be if I knew anything about it.’

Duncan’s pale eyes gleamed. ‘You have heard, I’m sure, of the Nornor.’ He sucked his lower lip and looked at me expectantly.

‘The gnaw-gnaw?’

‘Yes, the Fates of Scandinavian myth. They spin the threads of man’s destiny and when they decide that his end has come they cut the thread.’ Duncan made a snipping movement with two fingers in illustration. They are usually represented as harbingers of suffering and misfortune. They tend the Yggdrasil.’

‘Egg-drazzle?’

‘Ig. Ig. It’s an evergreen ash that connects heaven, earth and hell. At its foot is a fountain of wonderful virtues. In the tree are an eagle, a squirrel and four stags. A dragon gnaws at its roots.’

‘Really!’ I tried to imagine it but there were too many components for a clear picture.

‘Marigold.’ A jolt ran through my nervous system as I felt a hand on my elbow. Rafe – my idol, my prince lointain, the top brick of my childhood chimney – stood beside me, holding a glass of champagne. ‘Come and sit by the fire and rest that leg. You can talk to her later, Duncan.’ He smiled down at me. ‘Look, she’s blue with cold.’

I smiled back. ‘I hope not literally.’

Rafe was taller even than I remembered him, perhaps six foot three inches, and his shoulders were proportionately broad.

‘Yes, your arms are the colour of forget-me-nots. It’s perfectly charming.’ He kept hold of my elbow and steered me over to the fireplace. Everyone was obliged to move out of the way because a person on crutches takes up a lot of room. ‘Here we are.’ He indicated a low stool before the fender, took the crutches from me and laid them on the rug before the hearth, thus securing the only two cubic metres of really warm air exclusively for us. I sat down gratefully. ‘Move up a bit. I don’t want to crush that pretty dress. Duncan’s terribly disappointed. You’ll have to be nice to him after dinner.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t.’

‘Don’t argue. A man knows these things. This is cosy, isn’t it? Can’t you feel envious eyes trained on our slowly thawing backs? You needn’t thank me – you’re just an excuse. I haven’t been home long enough to acclimatize myself to steaming breath, frozen lavatories and ice on the breakfast milk.’

‘I’m delighted to be of use to someone. Recently I’ve been nothing but a nuisance.’

I allowed myself to look full into his face. If he’d been an actor he would have got all the David Niven parts. He had fair hair and blue eyes but this softness was contradicted by the masculinity of the high forehead, straight nose and firm chin. Running from his temple to his jawbone was a thin red scar. This added a singularity to his appearance, which might otherwise have been too conventionally handsome to be truly magnetic. My tastes had become more exotic since we had last met. But I enjoyed looking at the Phoebus Apollo of my girlhood.

‘A nuisance? I don’t believe you ever could be.’ Rafe smiled, making the scar crinkle attractively. A group of strangers finding themselves trapped in a lift or marooned on a desert island would have appointed him their leader without hesitation. ‘Well, Miss Marigold Savage.’ He smiled more broadly, showing strong white teeth, and a teasing light appeared in his eyes. He was more magnetic than I had first thought. ‘Evelyn tells me you’re becoming famous. I wonder if some day biographers will ask me about the carroty little thing I once knew who turned scarlet whenever she was spoken to.’

His voice was attractive too, light and good humoured. I imagined him, debonair in cricket flannels, acknowledging with a wave of his bat the cheers of the crowd as he made a century and won the match.

‘How unfair!’ I grinned to show I didn’t mind being teased. ‘By the time I was old enough to notice, you’d already gone through the stage of being gauche and gangling.’

How well he would look in the cockpit of a Spitfire, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he fired off round after round, singlehandedly saving a phalanx of crippled bombers …

‘Gauche, undoubtedly, but I deny that I was ever gangling. As a child I was short and fat. I didn’t grow until I was about twelve. And I ate lots of tuck to compensate for having my head pushed down the lavatory every day at prep school.’

‘You’ve made up for it since.’

‘You, on the other hand, have scarcely begun.’

‘Actually I’m quite big for a dancer.’

‘The others must be leprechauns. How did you break your leg?’

‘Foot. I landed too heavily. Nothing more than a stress fracture to begin with. But I went on dancing on it, that was the trouble.’

‘No doubt you had a good reason for what seems to the uninitiated like idiocy?’

I told Rafe about Miko Lubikoff, explaining as briefly as I could why it was so important.

‘Of course you want to be the best. I can understand that. When we’re told as children that it’s the taking part that counts, we all know that’s bunkum.’

‘Well, you have to be better than the others or you won’t get the good roles. But, actually, what you really yearn to do above all else is to express something beyond just a beautiful line or speed or technique. You want to try to reach some sort of ideal of artistic perfection. You never can, of course, but you have to try.’ Rafe was looking at me with a curious expression. I had the impression he wasn’t really listening to me, which was just as well because what I had just said probably sounded horribly pretentious to someone not in the ballet world. ‘What do you really yearn to do?’

‘Me? I don’t know that I’ve ever been ambitious, apart from silly ephemeral things like winning the boat race or beating the next chap at tennis. I’ve never had a great mission in life. I’m just a simple soldier. Or was. Now I suppose I’m a simple estate manager, a glorified farmer … Hello, Father.’ Rafe stood up as his father approached. ‘Like to sit here?’

Kingsley Preston had changed so much I hardly recognized him. I remembered him as a strong, upright man, wearing his years well. Now he stooped and his slack lower jaw meant that his mouth hung slightly open. The most disturbing change was his expression. Once sanguine and self-assured, this evening it was troubled. ‘No, my boy. No, thank you.’ His lips trembled as he spoke. ‘I prefer to roam.’

‘You remember Marigold, Father? Dr Savage’s daughter,’ Rafe added, seeing that Kingsley was looking vague.

‘Savage. Yes. Consulted him last week about my prostate. Daughter, you say?’ He glanced at me again as though baffled, then his expression cleared. ‘I remember! Went off to be a singer. Yes, a sweet little thing. How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you, sir. I’m sorry I can’t get up very easily … my leg …’

He pressed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, my dear. So you’ve been in the wars, eh? What happened?’

‘I’m a dancer actually. I landed clumsily.’

‘Really? That’s too bad. Rotten luck. So the singing didn’t work out, then? Never mind. I’d rather watch a pretty girl dance than hear her sing any day. Well, well, little Miss Savage.’ He smiled, seeming genuinely pleased to see me. ‘So you’ve come back to play with Isobel.’

I laughed, assuming this to be a joke, and Kingsley looked gratified. ‘Sweet little thing. You must have another glass of champagne, my dear.’ His eyes became glassy and he dropped his chin, muttering into his chest, ‘I’d better go and pee. It takes some doing getting through dinner these days.’ He shuffled away.

‘He’s changed, hasn’t he?’ said Rafe, turning his head to look anxiously after his father. ‘But then … so have we all.’

‘Isobel hasn’t.’

‘No. She’s still the same. Just as … headstrong.’

I wondered what he meant but, before I could think of a tactful way of asking him, dinner was announced.

‘Hello, Spendlove.’ I gave my hand to the butler, who was waiting in the hall to direct guests to lavatories if they required them. He had been employed at Shottestone since before I was born.

‘Miss Marigold! I heard you was coming. You’re looking bonny. Apart from the leg, that is.’

‘Thank you. How are you?’

‘A bit of bother with me teeth and I don’t see so well as I did, but we must expect that.’ His upper lids drooped heavily, bloodhound-like, obscuring most of his eyes; his nose was heavily veined. Evelyn had once forbidden him to drink any more whisky, but he had been so miserable, weeping over the breakfast table and into the silver polish, that she had been forced to withdraw the prohibition. ‘Me feet are the trouble. The doctor says it’s gout. If there’s time you might think of popping down to the kitchen to have a word with Mrs Capstick.’

‘Of course I will. I’d love to see her again. How is she?’

‘Her stomick’s playing up still but you don’t hear her grumble. Better go in, Miss Marigold, or I’ll get a ticking off for keeping you hanging about in the cold.’

I glanced up at the stairs, remembered coming down them in my first grown-up party dress, seeing Rafe standing by the front door kissing a girl called Olive Fincham, running upstairs again to cry, my whole evening spoiled.

The dining room looked just the same. It was dark red with lots of Georgian silver and mahogany. Isobel and I were sitting opposite each other, two places down from Evelyn.

‘Would you say grace, Archdeacon?’ said Evelyn.

The man on my left began an oration in Latin. His voice had a peculiar muffled boom, as though he kept it locked in a chamber inside his chest. The dining room had previously been hallowed ground, only ventured upon for Isobel’s birthday parties. Mrs Capstick had made magical cakes. Had Rafe attended these occasions? I glanced up and found that he was looking at me. Next to him was a woman in mustard crepe with a crumpled corsage of pink silk roses. She saw me return his smile and looked affronted.

Grace over, I gave my attention to the man on my right. He had a pale rhubarb complexion, bulging dark eyes, a bald head and a prominent nose emerging from long stiff whiskers, the nearest thing I had ever seen to a prawn in evening dress. I saw from his place card that his name was Sir Ibbertson Darkly. He told me he had worked for the MOD (I had no idea what this was but he made it sound important) until his retirement. He was now an amateur historian (by implication rather brilliant). He told me about his career, his dead wife’s saintliness, his children, his tastes in music, literature, painting and dogs. He was collecting material for the definitive book about Hadrian’s Wall. Whenever I tried to say anything, he interrupted with more tales from the Darkly family chronicles.

‘Gibbon,’ I put in as he paused to swallow his last forkful of mushroom soufflé, ‘says that we should not estimate the greatness of Rome solely by the rapidity and extent of its conquests. Do you agree?’

I knew this sentence by heart because it came at the beginning of Chapter Two and I must have read it at least four hundred times in an attempt to get to grips with the beastly thing. I must admit I was pleased with the way it came out trippingly on my tongue, as though I knew what I was talking about. The amateur historian turned to look at me, his prawn eyes wide with shock, as though I had said that I intended to lie naked on the table and make love with every man present.

‘My dear young lady,’ he began, ‘how … what … Gibbon, you say … well, now … it may be so …’ He stared into his empty ramekin and was silent.

For my first attempt at intelligent conversation, this was a disappointing result. Evelyn, who had been toying with her soufflé until the last guest finished, put down her fork and two girls in black and white uniforms, who must have been hired for the occasion, appeared like magic to whisk away our plates. I remembered the bell under the table near Evelyn’s foot. Isobel had once hidden beneath the tablecloth during a lunch party and pressed it at random, occasioning much confusion until we gave ourselves away by laughing.

The next course was brought in. Mindful of the etiquette Evelyn had drummed into us as teenagers, I turned to the archdeacon. His card said, The Venerable James Cogan. He was a man of about fifty with a thick head of iron-grey hair. He was wearing clerical black and his shoulders were sprinkled with dandruff, which drifted down like snow whenever he shook his head for emphasis. I would have pitied this affliction had I not taken an immediate dislike to him. Having piled his plate with roast potatoes he ate quickly, almost gobbling as he told me about his unrivalled collection of incunabula. I had no idea what an incunabulum was but he never gave me a chance to ask. At last I tumbled to the fact that they were old books. I cheered up. Here was a perfect opportunity to display my newly acquired learning.

‘Does The Pilgrim’s Progress count as incunabula?’ I managed to slip in as he shovelled down a grouse breast.

‘Oh, no.’ Another shower of dandruff. ‘Bunyan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress in … ah-hem …1700 so it is much too late—’

‘Actually,’ I interrupted with a swiftness born of certainty, ‘the first part was written between 1667 and 1672.’ Archdeacon Cogan seemed to flinch. Remembering that I had rushed the gate with the historian, I decided to take a chattier line, so as not to startle him with my unexpected erudition. ‘I didn’t quite understand what Bunyan meant when he said it was abominable to make religion a stalking horse. What is a stalking horse, exactly?’

The archdeacon dabbed his greasy lips with his napkin and bared his teeth in a smile that was so devoid of warmth it was like the opening of a tomb. ‘It is … ah-hem … a device by which one may conceal one’s true intention. By hiding behind his horse, a hunter may deceive his quarry.’

‘Mm. I think Talkative’s so much more interesting than Faithful, don’t you?’ The archdeacon looked dazed so I went on quickly. ‘Faithful’s rather a dreary, preachy sort of character.’

The archdeacon prodded at the skeleton of his grouse and frowned. ‘It has been some years since I last read the work.’

‘I didn’t like the bit about the robin and the spider at all,’ I continued. ‘Everyone knows that robins don’t have a sense of right and wrong and cheerfully eat anything they can get.’

He shot me a doubtful look, as though he suspected that I was completely off my head. The pudding was brought in so he gave his attention to Evelyn. Though it was my go for Sir Ibbertson Darkly, he went on talking to his other neighbour, so I concentrated instead on enjoying the Charlotte Malakoff. After the last delicious mouthful I found I was still between two backs, so I examined the portraits of Kingsley’s ancestors and tried to look as though I was enjoying myself. Where had I gone wrong, I wondered? Usually I had so little to say on any subject other than ballet that I was reduced to inane interjections like ‘really?’ ‘gosh!’ and ‘I’d never thought of that.’ Could it be, I asked myself, that men liked to do all the talking themselves? Could it be that they were simply not interested in anyone else’s opinions?

Evelyn’s vigilant eye had seen that I was neglected.

‘Marigold’s career has been of the greatest interest to me,’ she said to the table in general. ‘It was my idea that she and Isobel should attend dancing classes. Marigold showed talent from the first. Isobel was also exceptionally graceful but she grew too tall.’

‘I was crap, Mummy,’ said her daughter. Evelyn closed her eyes briefly as though she felt the first pang of a headache. ‘Really. I couldn’t do a tendu to save my life.’

She sent me a look of smiling complicity across the table.

‘Those are very pretty pearls, Marigold.’ Evelyn seemed determined to shower me with approval.

‘Thank you. I bought them in a junk shop for fifty pee—’

‘Wearing them next to the skin,’ Evelyn interrupted, ‘is the only way to keep them glowing. The warmth, you know.’

‘Apparently the same’s true of ivory,’ said Isobel. ‘The only trouble is, when it gets warm it gives off a smell like semen. Rather embarrassing, mustn’t it be, to find yourself stinking like a tart?’

A perceptible shudder ran round the table. Duncan laughed nervously, then, seeing Evelyn’s face, broke off in mid-chuckle. Evelyn looked at Mustard Crepe and nodded, the signal for the women to depart.

Isobel took my elbow as I made my way slowly into the hall. ‘You poor darling. Not only crippled but bored stiff. Such is the price paid by Mummy’s darlings.’

‘I’m really too impoverished and obscure to qualify,’ I said, and instantly regretted it because it seemed so insulting to Evelyn.

‘You’re an artist and they’re allowed to be poor. I can assure you Mummy definitely sees you as a trophy.’ Isobel changed the subject. ‘What are your plans?’

‘I’m going to stay here until the cast comes off. Another five weeks. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’m here for the duration. There are tremendous ructions afoot. I can’t wait to tell you my news. You’ll never believe it but I’m going to—’

‘Isobel, come and take round the coffee cups.’ There was a sharpness in Evelyn’s tone as she swept past us on her way to the drawing room.

‘I’ll just go and say hello to Mrs Capstick.’

‘All right. Don’t be long. You must save me from the old cats.’

I limped in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs Capstick was sitting in her chair by the Aga, her legs stretched out, her work done. The two girls who were giggling over the washing up stared at me in surprise when I kissed her.

‘How are you, my pet?’ She smiled up at me. ‘I knew you’d trouble yourself to come and say how do. You always was a dear girl. You’re too thin. Don’t they feed you properly?’

‘Nobody cooks like you. Dinner was wonderful. Particularly the Charlotte Malakoff.’

‘I had to hunt through my old books to find the recipe. Madam says it’s too fattening but Miss Isobel begged her. All them layers of butter and cream and sugar … whip … whip … whip … my poor arm … excuse me, dear.’ She took a swig from the dark brown bottle that stood on the warming plate of the Aga. ‘It’s my stomach as does play up so.’

Mrs Capstick’s stomach was like Nelson’s eye patch, a popular fiction. Everyone knew she had been addicted for years to Collis Browne’s Mixture. Her lids drooped.

‘It was so kind of you to make it for me.’

‘Bless you, my love, I enjoyed doing it. You can have too much fruit salad … not like the old days when you children was little … plenty of good food … the sort Mr Preston likes … steak and kidney pudding and steamed treacle sponge. Now it’s all consommé and grilled … chops …’

Her eyes closed. I would have tiptoed away but it was impossible in my condition. I clomped back to the drawing room. There was no sign of Isobel. I took up my former position on the stool by the fire and spent twenty minutes watching my goose pimples subside while pretending to listen with interest as Evelyn and the two older women discussed the inconveniences of living in large old houses, as though they might for a single moment contemplate living in anything else.

‘Hello, Marigold.’ Rafe and the other men had come into the drawing room. I was gratified to see that he made a beeline for me. ‘What’s it like to be back in the fold?’

He gave me his teasing smile again, which was magnetic enough to bring back a few goose pimples. I wondered which fold he meant – the inner circle blessed by Evelyn’s approval or Northumberland generally? Or perhaps the bosom of my own family?

Before I could answer, Kingsley had wandered over. ‘Hello, young lady. You look chilly. Rafe, put another log on the fire. We can’t have Miss … er … Miss … feeling cold.’

‘This is Marigold, Father. You remember. Dr Savage’s daughter.’

‘Savage.’ Kingsley looked puzzled. Then his face brightened. ‘Ah yes. Consulted him last week about my … my … that thing that begins with a P. Daughter. Yes, now I remember. Sweet little thing. Went off to be a singer. How are you, my dear?’

‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

‘Good, good. Delighted to see you.’ He patted me quite hard on the head and wandered away again.

‘Move up.’ Rafe sat down beside me. ‘You see how it is with my father. But he seems reasonably happy. Do you think anyone will notice if I take my shoes off and thaw out my feet? You won’t mind, will you? Socks clean on this evening.’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

He unlaced one speckless patent leather shoe and held his foot, clad in a black silk sock, before the blaze. The foot was large, as befitted a tall man, with straight toes. He had straight, strong fingers, too, with square, well-kept nails and no doubt a straight mind, open and honourable. It might have been all the wine I had drunk but the idea of a man who was chock-full of moral fibre and who would always get you out of a hole was fast growing on me. He was neither exotic nor a dancer, but he had a polished assurance that was headily romantic. The moment I thought this I told myself not to be a fool.

‘Ah, Rafe. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’ Sir Ibbertson had come up behind us. He inserted his bulk between us and the fire. Rafe was obliged to stand up. He kicked his shoe under the stool.

‘You’ve been in Northern Ireland, your mother tells me. What’s the answer in the case of these wretched IRA hunger-strikers? The lowest form of emotional blackmail, not to put too fine a point on it!’

Rafe smiled politely. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, sir. It would be more than my life is worth to talk politics in Evelyn’s drawing room. It’s one of her cardinal rules.’

‘What?’ Sir Ibbertson looked round and saw that his hostess was busy handing the chocolates to the archdeacon. ‘Oh, never mind that. She can’t hear us. What’s the government thinking of, letting these men make martyrs of themselves, that’s what I want to know?’

Rafe stopped smiling. ‘I suppose they don’t have any choice in the matter.’

‘Nonsense. They could get them into hospital and force-feed them.’

‘I believe there’s a law against that. Anyway, it really isn’t something I’m qualified to give an opinion about.’

‘But you spent time there. You know how those bog-trotters think.’

‘The British army are the last people the Irish are going to confide in. It’s a very difficult situation with a long, complicated history. Best left to politicians.’ He turned to me. ‘Can I get you some more coffee?’

The amateur historian seemed to be prompted by an imp of Satan. ‘If we all took that attitude, we’d end up illiterate zanies. I consider it the duty of educated men to inform themselves on the subjects of the day and to have an opinion. What about our soldiers who’ve been blown up – murdered – in Northern Ireland?’

I heard a faint rattling. Rafe’s hand – the one that held the coffee cup – was trembling. He put up the other hand to still it. ‘Unless you’ve lived there for several years – I don’t mean as a soldier but among the people – your opinion isn’t worth having.’

All this time I had been trying to think of a way to stop Sir Ibbertson from goading Rafe. Now, seeing that Rafe’s face was ashen and his eyes were glistening, I said, ‘We took La Sylphide to Dublin once. Such a lovely city … all those beautiful eighteenth-century houses … I wish you’d tell me more about Hadrian’s Wall.’

Sir Ibbertson, red in the face now and more like a boiled prawn than ever, ignored me and addressed Rafe in an offended tone. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with you—’

‘Fine!’ Rafe almost shouted, and I saw that Evelyn’s guests were looking in our direction.

At that moment Isobel rushed between us and put her arm through Rafe’s. ‘Silence, please!’ she called. ‘I have an important announcement to make.’ She laughed, rather uneasily I thought. ‘You’re all extraordinarily privileged to be the first to know. Mummy, Daddy, Everyone! … I’m engaged to be married.’