A Rather English Marriage (30 page)

‘In that case,' said Tidmarsh drily, ‘I should start by saying that from now on my time is money.'

‘Synchronize watches. Fourteen-twenty-two,' said Reginald. ‘And counting down …'

In the end, what he needed to know was simple. Were he to remarry, were he to sell the house, were he to purchase a
smaller one, did he have the use of Mary's share of the proceeds from The Cedars until he died, or did it go straightaway to this orphanage thing of hers?

‘I will scrutinize Mrs Conynghame-Jervis's will,' said Tidmarsh, ‘and let you have my opinion as soon as possible. From what I recall, the terms of the will are less than specific on this point. In any case, I am afraid it may be necessary to communicate your intention to the British Association for Adoption and Fostering, whose interpretation may differ from my own, and more particularly from your wishes.'

‘Fourteen-twenty-nine,' said Reggie.

‘Seventy-five pounds,' said Tidmarsh. ‘It is I am afraid our minimum consultancy fee.'

‘Shall we go halves on the bill?' asked Reginald.

Shortly afterwards they parted, both in a bad temper, but Reginald was planning to cheer himself up with a visit to Sabrina, whereas Tidmarsh could only look forward to an afternoon at the office.

Roy and June had finally worked out a plan and reached agreement. He would get the house in Thomas Street ready for her and the boys. Gloria would take over her mother's tenancy in Balham for the time being, so that June had the choice of going back there if things didn't work out. As soon as term ended, Billy and little Joe would go off for ten days to Cubs' summer camp, while June moved their stuff to Tunbridge Wells and settled down. By mid-August they would all be living under one roof. Meanwhile, in view of the special circumstances, both boys had been provisionally accepted at the school their father had attended.

‘See how it goes,' had become Roy's motto. ‘No long-term plans, no promises. See how it goes.'

He hadn't felt this tired in years. It wasn't just his age, though he was increasingly conscious of the years. Despite the warmth of July, he felt like a gnarled old tree with too many inner rings, its bark cracking, leaves loosening, sap drying up. The effort of running the Squadron Leader's house as well as
preparing his own left him drained and exhausted. Take it slowly, Royston, he would try and tell himself: more haste, less speed (for that was what Grace used to say when he was rushing), but he couldn't take it slowly. Time was running out. In less than two weeks, June would be moving in. Drawers and cupboards had to be emptied of the débris of the past and the débris itself given away (if anyone would have it; thrown away in the end, more likely, though the stuff was still good, clean and darned by her dear hands). The furniture needed rearranging – he couldn't monopolize the big bedroom all on his own, wasn't fair. He'd let June have that. He'd move into Alan's old room, which was handy, being next to the bathroom and toilet, and set up the shrine on top of the chest of drawers, with her photographs on his bedside table. He'd have to ask one of his mates from the pub, or a neighbour, to help him shift the furniture. Even with another pair of hands he didn't know how he was going to manage … Well, leave that problem for another day. Meanwhile he had to clear out Vera's room for the boys. The floors needed scrubbing, the windows polishing, and empty drawers had to be shaken out and relined.

Roy was setting off for his own house at lunchtime, having spent the morning (it was a Monday) doing the big double wash and hanging shirts on the line, when Fred the gardener stopped the motor-mower that was carving stripes and squares around the rose-beds in the front lawn. He cocked his head twice.

‘Here!' he called, ‘Roy! Here a minute!'

Roy looked at him wearily, screwing up his eyes against the sharp light. ‘What?' he asked.

‘Over here!' said Fred again. ‘Don't mind him. He's gone out ten minutes ago. Look, tell me it's none of my business, but what you killing yourself for? He don't notice and you look right knackered.'

‘Now Aggie's gone,' Roy explained, ‘and he can't find anyone else –'

‘No wonder, from what I hear.'

‘I've been doing her work. Can't let the mess pile up, can
you? Who's going to do the cleaning? Not him, that's for sure. House would be a disgrace.'

‘Not your problem, mate. He upped your money?'

Roy did not feel like admitting that he was unpaid, so he simply said, ‘No.'

‘Nor me, neither,' replied Fred. ‘Tell you the truth, if it wasn't for all the veg I takes home from out the back, and apples and that, I wouldn't stay. Four pounds an hour's all he pays, mean sod! I could get a fiver anywhere else. But it's become like my own garden; been here for over three years now, you get to care for it, don't you? Haven't had a raise since Madam died. Pity you never knew her: she was a real lady, lovely person, it's always the good ones as goes first. Take my advice: you tell him, “Squadron Leader, you got to find someone else to clean, I ain't able to do it no more, my health won't stand for it.” You'll give yourself a heart attack, matey, way you're carrying on, I kid you not.'

This speech made Roy feel worse. Sitting on the bus to the shopping centre, he examined his symptoms. His legs were bad – that was nothing new, they'd been bad for a long time, but now his feet were starting to go. He had two ingrowing toenails that hurt like nobody's business; he'd go to a chiropodist if he ever got the time. Ankles were beginning to let him down, collapse on him, and his feet turned inwards so that he often tripped and had to catch on to something to save himself. One of these days he'd come a cropper.

He proffered his pensioner's bus pass.

‘That's all right, Dad,' said the bus conductress, cheerful because of the fine weather. ‘I didn't think you was bunking off paying!'

Then there were the noises in his head, the buzzing and fizzing and sometimes roaring sounds. He didn't know if it was his heartbeat magnified – cataracts of blood pounding up to his brain and ebbing back again before launching their next tidal wave – or whether it was just the ears that were wrong. Maybe it was nothing more than wax. He felt dizzy. His eyes would suddenly go all swimmy, like milk in a bottle tipping sideways, and when he took his glasses off to rub them
a haze would come over his vision and he would feel sick. His bladder couldn't be relied on, and he'd find himself caught short without warning. He'd had to learn the location of every Gents in town.

He ought to go and see the doctor; he would, if he ever got a moment. The prospect of sitting for an hour or more in a waiting-room full of whining children and sickly people put him off. More likely to get a disease than a cure. This must be old age, I suppose, he concluded dismally. I'm glad Gracie never lived to see it.

He was going in to Woolworth's to pick up a couple of bedside rugs for the boys – they wouldn't want to put their feet on to bare lino first thing in the morning, and he'd never got round to carpeting Vera's room once she had left – when he bumped into Molly Tucker.

‘Is it my old friend Roy Southgate or is it his ghost?' she hailed him cheerfully. ‘Come back to haunt me, have you?'

He was so pleased to see her, he could have cried. He put a hand across his eyes.

‘Hey, lovey, you all right?' she asked. ‘What's up? You had your lunch yet?'

‘No time,' said Roy. ‘Got to get on. I'll make myself a sandwich later,'

She dodged in front of him. ‘Let's have a proper look at you.'

Women are wonderful, he thought, as he sat in a wicker chair in Molly's back parlour looking out over her garden, an egg-and-ham salad inside him and a cup of tea at his elbow. They pick you up, brush you down, make a bit of a fuss, and you're back on your feet again. We should have gone together, Grace, but then, who would look after those boys? He squared his shoulders unconsciously so that Molly, coming into the room at that moment, said. ‘That's more like it! You feeling better? Now, remember what I said.'

‘We'll see how it goes,' said Roy. ‘No long-term plans. See how it goes. You've done me a power of good and I'm ever so grateful. Let's just see how it goes.'

*

The encounter with Sabrina had been a great success, Reginald reflected several days later; the big boy had proved more than adequate to the task. Now, equally gratifying, was the news in the morning's post. Tidmarsh had been compelled to admit – reluctantly, Reggie felt sure – that the will was not specific about the necessity of his remaining in the marital home, although he, Tidmarsh, felt obliged to point out that were he, the deceased's widower, to move, BAAF, being the designated beneficiaries of the current residence and former marital home, might consider it worth the cost of challenging his legal right to half the total proceeds of the sale of The Cedars. If, of course, he were to decide to sell it. Never anything clear and simple with these legal bods, thought Reggie; always ifs and buts.

His own world had been one of instant decisions, absolute certainties, black and white. Having fought as a Pilot Officer in the last weeks of the Battle of Britain, and then flown Hurricanes on ‘Rhubarb' strikes over France and with the Desert Airforce in North Africa, Reginald understood one thing: the chase. He enjoyed the chase, revelled in the chase, relished its twists and turns, and would have been disappointed in a too easy surrender. He knew that, where Liz was concerned, the chase was approaching its climax. Combat was about to be engaged. He knew she was determined to stay out of his bed until he had proposed marriage; knew that she regarded him as an honourable man, who would not retract the proposal, once made; knew that in this she was right. He for his part was equally determined to bed her first and, if all went satisfactorily, propose afterwards. Sabrina had given him the confidence to take Liz to bed. He felt more sure of himself than he had done since Mary's death. He felt randy.

Marriage, after all, was the simplest way to conduct one's life. It made a lot of sense. If Liz were around, she could deal with the little bloke, who kept muttering all of a sudden about going back to his own house. That would be thoroughly inconvenient, just when Reginald had got him trained to run the place properly, taught him how he liked his breakfast and his
shirts, how much ice in his whisky. Her womanly tact would make sure Southgate stayed put.

Once she was installed she might even organize, well, perhaps not parties exactly – he was a bit long in the tooth for parties – but they'd definitely get some people round for drinks, to introduce her: this is Liz, Liz
Conynghame-Jervis
. My wife. She'd make a favourable impression, good-looking girl like her. Good old Reggie, they'd say to each other as they left, never knew he still had it in him! After that he might invite Vivian and Whatsername, dammit, – 2nd Lady Blythgowrie – and the girls down for dinner one evening, and Celia or Felicity could bring that bearded chappie along for inspection. (What was the fellow doing with a beard? When he was younger, Reggie remembered, at Oxford, you'd call out ‘Beaver!' and score a point for a man with a beard; five points for a man with a ginger beard on a purple bicycle.) Well, he'd soon be back in the social swing. Been getting a bit solitary lately. Too many evenings on his own.

That shop of Liz's might be a problem. He'd persuade her to get rid of it, sell her house – tiddly little box like that wouldn't fetch much. Just as well; dangerous business letting wives have their own money. Wouldn't mind moving to somewhere a bit smaller. Five bedrooms – six, if you counted Mary's workroom – were more than the two of them needed. Unless, of course … No, in another year or so, when property prices had stabilized and he could walk away with enough profit on The Cedars to end his money worries, they ought to leave Tunbridge Wells and go to some sleepy Sussex village. Buy a nice old red-brick cottage beside a village pond, with a garden small enough for Mary – oops!
Liz –
to look after herself, keep her busy, give her something to do… That was the sort of life he could cope with.

He looked up. The garden was folding in on itself as dusk deepened. The insects that had earlier been buzzing in the apple trees or round the roses had fallen silent. The sky was indigo, with slanting black wisps leaning towards the last strands of sunset.

He considered, and rejected, several possible locations for the coming encounter. It needn't be romantic – that was for the proposal, which was next. For this dinner, Rules was tempting. The
maitre d'
would look after him, the dark red banquettes were roguishly suggestive, the food was first class; but the long drive home afterwards would tire him, as well as requiring him to stay reasonably sober. Booking a suite at the Savoy across the road was too obvious and, in any case, he wasn't sure how hotels reacted nowadays to unmarried couples arriving without luggage. He could hardly take Liz to one of those anonymous little places behind Victoria Station – half a dozen bedrooms, half a dozen double beds, half a dozen hand-basins, half a dozen curtained windows and one chain-smoking harridan on Reception – where in years gone by he had passed many an afternoon in return for a twenty-pound note.

He had no fears that alcohol might impair the big boy's performance. That had never been the problem; and in any case he hadn't been exactly stone cold the other day with Sabrina.

For this particular dinner the setting was crucial. Pick the right field of battle and you're halfway to victory. Rule one: fight in your own airspace. That was it. He would get an outside caterer to prepare a dinner for two, to be eaten here, in his own spacious dining-room. Southgate could serve it as far as the pudding and cheese, and he would arrange in advance that he should then
go home
. Fellow had spent the night away often enough lately, he couldn't remember why, but that should be no problem. He'd make it an order.