A Change of Pace (15 page)

‘I can’t wait to hear,’ said Bernie, just managing to tear himself away from his
Reader’s
Digest
.

‘She didn’t go to Aunty Maeve’s at all, she went to London to spend the weekend with Simon Morris.’

‘Good for your Mum! I bet that discovery’s made your Aunt Pol’s weekend.’

This was obviously one of Bernie’s ‘difficult’ days. Nell sniffed, her eyes beginning to fill with angry tears. ‘If you’re going to be like that, I’m going for a walk.’

‘You do that.’ Surely she wasn’t going to start crying again? Who wants a family anyway? Bernie, with a sigh of relief, returned to his
Reader’s
Digest
.

Chapter Twelve

‘Mum’, said Diz, ‘I’ve just been looking at this recipe in the colour supplement, it looks quite simple really and —’

‘Since when have you been interested in cooking?’ Bet was wading through the Sunday lunch washing-up, Nell having had to retire to bed in a hurry at the sight of the rhubarb crumble. Light dawned. ‘It’s those damned Duponts again, isn’t it. You think my cooking won’t be up to scratch. Let me tell you, good English cooking is all the rage in France; they have English pubs, and fish and chips, and —’

‘Who’s talking about good English cooking?’

‘Get out of here, you little toad, and take your recipe with you. If the Duponts don’t like what’s given them, they know what they can do.’

At that moment the phone rang. ‘It’s for you, Mum, the man Morris.’

‘Hullo,’ she said.

‘I can’t talk for long,’ he said — there seemed an awful lot of background noise — ‘I’m at a party.’

‘But it’s three o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘Is it really? The party must have gone on longer than I thought.’

‘How’s Bo?’

‘All right.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ Pause. More background noise. ‘Just thought I’d ring,’ he said, ‘to see how you were getting on.’

‘All right, I suppose,’ she said, ‘slaving away as usual. These wretched French friends of Diz arrive tomorrow expecting haute cuisine.’

‘Will they get it?’

‘No.’ She heard him laugh, then an indistinct female voice and the sound of a scuffle. ‘Can’t talk any longer, the natives are getting restless.’

‘OK then, goodbye.’ Why did he have to ring at all? She became aware of Diz at her elbow. ‘Were you listening?’

‘I couldn’t help it, could I? Morris sounded a bit pissed to me.’

‘Don’t be absurd, and don’t use that expression, you know I don’t like it.’

Back at the washing-up, a tear trickled down Bet’s nose into the greasy water, shortly followed by another. Damn and blast the man! What the hell was the point of ringing her up? Surely not just to let her know he was having a ball at some idiotic party. Or had he hoped to make her jealous? Either way, she wished he would leave her alone. She was beginning to feel rather desperate, and if something remotely positive —good or bad, she was past caring which — didn’t happen soon, she’d go clean round the bend. All that stupid weekend in London had done was to confirm what she knew already, namely, that she and Simon were simply not cut out for each other — except perhaps in bed, and how long could that last? That he was fond of her she now had no doubt, and she was fond of him — much too fond; but to believe he would be prepared to change his way of life for her was simply pie-in-the-sky, romantic nonsense.

‘It’s no use, ducky,’ Pete had said — thank God for Pete — ‘he’s not your sort.’

‘But how,’ she’d asked, feeling rebellious, ‘do you — or I, for that matter — know what my sort is? Just because I was married to one type of man doesn’t mean that’s the only type of man for me.’

‘No, ducky, that’s not what I meant. Now, if it were that chap Don Stewart.’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Now, don’t bristle up. Went to tea with him didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I went to tea with him, and a very nice tea we had. I like Don Stewart and I’m sure he’s a first-class archaeologist, but — ’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, ducky. You’re a highly fanciable woman as well you know ... ’

But Bet, scrubbing away at the gravy saucepan with a scourer that should have been thrown out weeks ago, wondered whether she really was. OK, men like that man on the train and Ron Stokes fancied her, but sex to them was surely just a biological urge; like a dog pursuing a bitch on heat. In the end, whichever way one looked at it, it all boiled down to the same old well-tried cliché; a woman wanted a lover, a man wanted sex. Not that she didn’t want sex, far from it, but she wanted all sorts of other things to go with it. Whereas Simon ... well, all Simon appeared to want was to mess around with pink-haired morons half his age and names like Bo. And if the whole thing wasn’t so bloody miserable it would be farcical — no doubt others already saw it that way. And perhaps, like the real Titania, she really had been bewitched. Or perhaps, and more likely, things up to now had been too easy, and the Fates in their wisdom had decided that the time had come for her to pay.

Having finished the washing-up at last, she decided to go upstairs and inspect the Dupont sleeping arrangements; it might, if nothing else, take her mind off things. Jean-Pierre was to share with Diz, and Liza to have the tiny room over the porch. Liza’s room was only just big enough for a bed and dressing-table, but nevertheless looked quite pretty. A young girl’s bedroom; soft pink walls, curtains and bedspread to match. She must remember to pick some roses in the morning for a vase on the dressing-table; some of those pale pink climbers behind the garage, with the heavenly scent — young girls liked that sort of thing. She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes. At least the next few weeks should be so busy that she would have little time to think: Diz at home, the Duponts, Pol and Pete down for ten days. Then, of course, there was the bloody village fete.

How could she have been so idiotic as to promise Mrs Snately the Rectory garden for it? But she had, and that was that. She could hardly go back on her promise now. At least — and Bet would never know how her sister had achieved such a coup, or indeed whether Angie Snately was pleased or appalled by the development — Pol had taken over the running of the fête. And, naturally, Pol was in her element. Not since that last, halcyon term at St Christopher’s when she was head girl had she enjoyed herself so much. Committees proliferated under her hand, coffee parties bourgeoned, friendships blossomed. Smiling ladies ran hither and thither at her command, only too eager, it seemed, to oblige her every whim. It was all, they told Bet as they dashed about laden with home-made teddies, perfectly knitted matinee jackets and lists for the white elephant stall, turning out to be such fun. Mrs Redford was such a good sort, wasn’t she, and such a change from old Ma Snately. Bet’s role in all this — one had to be thankful for small mercies — was that of humble tea-maker, and she would do a possible two-hour stint on the cake stall. ‘That is,’ Pol had said nastily the other evening on the phone (if people only knew what she was really like), ‘if you can spare the time from your other activities ... ’

*

‘Now, Mum, can we go over the programme just once more. We have the daube for supper tonight, OK? Plus salad and Sid Kettle’s strawberries for afters, plus those two bottles of wine I won in the Co-op raffle. Then Nell and Bern, having already eaten, join us for coffee, then — ’

‘Count me out for coffee.’ Bernie, in a track suit, closed his eyes wearily. ‘I’ve work to do this evening.’

The three of them, Bet, Diz and Bernie, stood shivering in the booking hall at Stourwick station, waiting for the Duponts’ train, the day as cold as only an English June day can be. Bernie opened his eyes and went into his running-on-the-spot routine. ‘I hope the train isn’t late, I really do have a lot on. Didn’t you say the sister can drive?’

‘Yes, she’s frightfully good, all the French are.’

‘If that’s the case, why not hire a self-drive for the week, then the three of you can go round together.’

‘The train arriving at platform three is the seventeen forty-five from Liverpool Street to Norwich, stopping at ... ‘

‘They’re here! Come on, Mum, we must be there to welcome them, it looks so bad if no one’s around.’ Diz thrust himself into the crowd, Bet and Bernie trailing after him.

‘Dizzy, Dizzy, how are you?’ A tall, pleasant-faced youth, hung about with the usual paraphernalia of rucksacks and cameras, burst through the jumble of tired-faced commuters. ‘Great JP, great! May I introduce my mother ... ‘ Embraces all round. Bet felt relieved; he didn’t look too bad at all. But where was the sister?

Then they saw her.

Tiny, perfect, she was an enchanted figure straight out of the
Arabian
Nights
. She had almond eyes and golden skin; she had black hair, its snaky ringlets caught up in a tortoiseshell comb at the side of her head, and perfect breasts swelling gently under her dusty pink bush jacket. She was followed by, of all people, old Monty Cornwall carrying her rucksack.

‘Is that ... ?’ Bernie, with an all too audible gasp, pushed forward to introduce himself before anyone else had a look-in. Bet had never seen him so animated. ‘I’m Diz’s brother-in-law, Bernie, welcome to England, Liza — is this your first visit?’

“Allo, Bernee. Yes, it is my first visit to the UK. It is always so cold?’ One might have known her voice would be as enchanting as the rest of the damned girl; husky, lilting, the accent amusingly pronounced. Bet, her mouth dry, put a brave face on it. ‘Hullo, my dear, I’m Diz’s mother. How very nice to meet you at last.’

Bernie seemed, quite literally, to have taken leave of his senses. He took no steps whatsoever to conceal his admiration for Liza, and throughout the car journey home did all he could to monopolise her attention. On their arrival at the Rectory, he added insult to injury by hovering solicitously in the doorway while Bet showed Liza her bedroom; Bet was sure he would have accompanied her to the loo if she had not forcibly restrained him. Nell, needless to say, took exception to all this, and instead of behaving like a sensible girl, showed it. In the end, worn out, Bet retired to bed as soon after supper as she decently could and left them to it. But Bernie of all people...

At least Jean-Pierre was all right, and seemed delighted with everything. He was a modest, intelligent, unassuming boy, with an attractive sense of humour. Just the sort of friend Bet would have liked for Diz. Liza, on the other hand, when one had recovered from the shock of her beauty, turned out to be both sulky and hard to please, and was plainly used to being the centre of attention. She did not, she told Bet, like dogs or old houses, and complained incessantly of the cold.

It was at breakfast the following morning that she started on about Tib, who with an only too typical lack of tact, had tried to bury his bone under her bed. ‘I pull ‘im out by ‘is tail,’ she told the assembled company, ‘and ‘e growl at me; ‘e bites — yes?’ No,’ they chorused in outrage, even Bernie, ‘not Tib,’ but it was an inauspicious start to the holiday.

Later, Bernie rang from work to say he’d decided to take a few days holiday. ‘There’s nothing here that can’t wait,’ he told Bet, ‘and I’ve a load of chores to do at home. Besides,’ he added as a careless afterthought, ‘I could drive the others around a bit, save them having to hire. They haven’t tried to get a car yet?’

‘I don’t think so, Liza’s still in the bath.’ Another sore point, this; it was the second time she’d taken all the hot water.

‘But why couldn’t Bernie have told me himself?’ Nell wailed, wide-eyed with suspicion, ‘he hasn’t any chores, no more than usual, anyway, and the weather’s absolutely foul.’

‘Bet, if it’s still as cold as this, can you tell Christine to turn on the heating on Thursday morning. We’ll be arriving around seven on Thursday evening, Pete’s got Friday off, so could she also get the grouse out of the deep. freeze?’

‘Will there be anything else, modom, while you’re on the line?’

‘Oh Bet, don’t be difficult. I’ve enough on my plate organising this wretched fête. Angela Snately never stops ringing, what her phone bill must be like I dread to think. I thought C. of E. vicars were always supposed to be so poor.’ Bet grunted, she was in no mood to listen to moans about the Snatelys, it was Pol’s fault for getting involved. Pol, sensing a certain lack of sympathy, pressed on: ‘How are the Duponts settling in — are they nice?’

‘It depends on what you mean by nice. But this I will say, I would keep Pete on a tight rein if I were you.’

There was a shocked silence at the other end, and Bet smiled in satisfaction. ‘You mean Liza Dupont?’

‘Yes, dear, I mean Liza Dupont.’

‘I see.’

*

‘Mrs Brandon, I am sorry, but I do not eat your cabbage.’ ‘I’m sorry too, Liza. Perhaps you could have salad instead?’

‘That would be most agreeable.’

Liza sat in her chair and lit a Gauloise. Bet went on munching her rissole — let the little b- get her own salad. After a moment or two of rather charged silence, Diz, a bit pink about the gills, sprang to his feet. ‘I’ll make the salad, Mum, don’t you bother.’

‘Thanks, darling’ — he was a good boy, bless him — ‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to get a lettuce from the garden, and do make sure you get one from the bed beside the west wall, they’ve less slugs in them than the others. Liza, dear, would you mind awfully not smoking at meals, it does tend to upset people, especially non-smokers.’ Liza, with an aggressive scrape of her chair, also jumped to her feet. ‘I will help Dizzy,’ she said, and stalked out of the room. JP smiled across at Bet. ‘Your cabbage is superb, Mrs Brandon, it is just Liza, she does not ... does not —’

‘We can’t all like cabbage, JP, if we did there wouldn’t be enough to go round, would there?’

*

‘I can’t take much more of this, Mum.’ Bet and Nell stood at Nell’s bedroom window, watching the others pile into Bernie’s car. Bernie had just donned Liza’s peaked cap and with much hearty laughter — from Bernie and Liza, JP and Diz didn’t seem to think it all that funny — Liza was chasing him round the yard trying to get it back. ‘Well, darling, I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do about it.’ Bet was thoroughly tired of the whole thing, but still doggedly doing her best. ‘You should have gone with them. In situations like this you must fight, you know, it’s no use sitting back and just letting things take their course.’